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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25791148">Duke Cullen</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntrovertedWife/pseuds/IntrovertedWife'>IntrovertedWife</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age: Inquisition</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Regency, Cullen Rutherford Smut, F/M, Pirates, Regency Romance, Sweet, Sweet Cullen Rutherford, duke - Freeform, duke cullen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 09:06:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>43,156</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25791148</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntrovertedWife/pseuds/IntrovertedWife</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Duke Rutherford never wanted this title, death forcing it upon him. He retires from public until the new mysterious Governess enters his life. Cullen is a recently-made Duke bachelor fresh from war, who’s sworn off interacting with the public in the wake of his father's death. He avoids all interactions outside his household until he has to take care of his young cousin and hires a beautiful governess to educate her. While he tries to relearn the rules to the game of peerage, he finds himself growing closer and closer to the mysterious governess.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>66</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>83</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>All images were created by <a href="https://voidtakeyou.tumblr.com/">@voidtakeyou</a></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">  </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">All is not well in Honnleath. The shutters drawn, the ivy swallowing the grounds, only the solemn whispers circling the lofty house where once a child laughed in play. His weary heart wishes for a miracle from the fairies to lift the curse lingering in every tapestry and floorboard. But the master of the house knows it would be impossible. Fairies aren’t real, magic is a lie, and love always dies.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Duke Rutherford?” </span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Hmph, who wishes to…?” The bent man leaning over the fireplace rises, his height quickly towering above the stranger silhouetted by the rain’s crack of lightning. As he turns, his eyes widen, drinking in the tiny woman the steward left standing in the parlor entrance. “Know?” he gulps. </span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Her eyes drop to her feet. Absently, she rustles her summer green skirts, the color causing the brown depths of her skin to glow. The twin oil lamps behind cast a bright glow, warping the very air to form golden wings vibrating off her back. Without thought, the Duke takes a step forward and his knee buckles in an instant.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Ungentlemanly curses slip from his lips, his leg crumbling courtesy of the musket bullet lodged under his kneecap. He lashes his hand out for the cane forever at his side, but tender palms scoop around his body, a soft body supporting him. In surprise, Cullen turns his head directly into the sweetest brown eyes a breath from his.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She holds him as if she could support the world, her rose-pink lips parted as if in shock that she would hold a man she’s just met. “I’m…” A blush crawls across her cheeks, the tiny woman releasing him. As Cullen rises to his feet, the cane where it belongs to assist, she finishes, “I’m Governess Trevelyan. The woman you hired to teach your nephew?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“A pleasure to meet you,” Cullen says. For the first time in ages, he truly means it.</span>
</p><p class="p7"> </p><hr/><p class="p7"> </p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Save the weekly inspection of young master Branson’s progress, Gwen sees little of the lord of the manor. She was warned in her placement that he was known to be gruff with no use for frivolity. Labeled a lion of the field during the war, he takes to his unexpected rise to Dukedom by seeming to lock himself away in his office until time for bed. </span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">For that reason, Gwen thought little of settling into a settee beside the window. The scent of wisterias dangling from below the flower box linger on the spring breeze as she dives deeper into her book. She ignores the first sound, assuming it to be one of the farm animals pacing the grounds outside. With the next, Gwen glances up from her yellowing pages into an amber glare.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“M-m-m…” She leaps to her feet, accidentally hurling the book out the window in the process from surprise. Grabbing the sides of her dress, she dips into a deep curtsy while spitting out, “My Lord.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I did not anticipate anyone to be in here,” his voice rumbles in his chest, causing Gwen to wince.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Even with her head turned low, she feels his gaze burning through the cap hiding her hair. “Please forgive my unseemly intrusion. Given the lovely turn of weather today I thought to enjoy the warm winds by the garden.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A snort rolls off his tongue, the imposing man of swords and honor staring towards the outer gardens where his nephew plays. “It is a lovely day.” The cadence of his voice softens measurably from the firing squad drumbeat of his inspections. It surprises Gwen, causing her to glance up from below her lashes.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">His stern face, harder than the steel his family’s known for, melts at the splendor of nature. A foolish smile flits about Gwen’s lips until the amber eyes snap to hers. Bowing deeper, she says, “Forgive me. I will leave you to your library.” Head to the floor, she scampers quickly to the door, her heart thundering in her chest.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">As she reaches the rug, praying to escape any wrath from her fumble, Duke Rutherford speaks, “Stay.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen blinks, certain she heard him wrong. “My Lord?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He glances at her over his shoulder. “It is a lovely day.” For a beat, those taciturn lips slip upwards in a near-smile. But he shakes it off, the steel deathmask slapping into place. Walking to his desk, he falls to the chair with papers in hand. “You seem quiet enough. I doubt you shall disturb me.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Curtsying once more, Gwen watches the inscrutable lion fall into his correspondence. He gives no hint to her presence save a half-smile curling up the scar on his lip. Returning to the window, Gwen whispers, “Thank you, my Lord.” She gazes to the disturbed flowerbed where her book now resides, out of reach. Later she can gather it before the moles come for her pages. For now she finds an unexpected serenity in the Duke’s presence and the whisper of nature’s perfume on the breeze.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Mia</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">  </span>
</p><p class="p6"> </p><p>“Mia.” While under normal circumstances Cullen would be less than thrilled for his meddling sister to arrive unannounced, after the year the family had he embraces her with open arms.</p><p>She too is surprised by the outpouring of affections, her eyes crossing back and forth over him. “I am concerned that brigands have absconded with my brother and replaced him.”</p><p>“Droll as always,” he sighs, roughing a hand back through his hair. He’d been letting the curls grow, of no mind to face a barber in his state. Besides, it was no challenge to tie his hair back when the winds blew off the seas.</p><p>His face falls as he accepts that it was not the ocean at his command but an estate left in his keeping due to the loss of half their family. Mia, a pain but an astute one, pats his hand. Down the long lane lined with shrubbery comes an infectious giggle. Cullen feels his own lips twitching in tandem at the young boy rushing to meet his favorite aunt.</p><p>To his surprise, the governess is hot on Branson’s heels. Her cheeks redden from the exercise, her hair loose in a plait that glistens by the strong sun. For a moment, their eyes meet, unspoken words exchanged in that glance about the exuberance of the boy left in their charge. Cullen’s stomach flips at the surprising but not displeasing intimacy.</p><p>“Auntie Mi!” Branson shouts launching forward. The governess tries to catch him, but she is too slow. In an instant, Branson wraps his arms around his favorite aunt and she hugs him back. “What did you bring me?”</p><p>“Oh,” she laughs, glancing at Cullen, “right to the heart of the matter. You’ll have to wait until after dinner, young man.”</p><p>Branson pouts, his face twisted up as if he ate a lemon, but that only causes the pair to laugh more. It is the governess who locks a hand to his shoulders. “Come along, young Master. We have more of your studies to attend to.” While Branson gives into her tactics, Miss Trevelyan curtsies to Mia, “My lady.” Then she turns to Cullen. “My lord.”</p><p>It is innocuous and expected, and he feels Mia’s gaze burning through him in an instant. “What...what brings you here, sister?”</p><p>“You, failing to accommodate the season.” She leaps right to the problem without a preamble.</p><p>“I’m dressed in linen.” Cullen glances down at the outfit chosen for him, missing the uniform.</p><p>His sister glares. “Every year, the Rutherford estate hosts a ball for the season...”</p><p>“Here it is.” He rolls his eyes. “I have no interest in balls, dances, soirees, or anything else of that like.”</p><p>“In order to maintain the dignity of our name...” Mia begins, getting a growl for her efforts. She sighs and switches tactics. “I know you didn’t want this title, that you planned to turn it over to Branson once father...”</p><p>He thought himself so smart, announcing on his 18th birthday that not only would Branson take the title of Duke but how Cullen would join the royal navy. God made fools of them both in one wrathful smite.</p><p>Mia grips to his forearm. “It is tradition, and, it’s what father would have wanted.”</p><p>God save him, but when she used the full might of her begging eyes he could not say no. “Very well,” Cullen sighs. “I assume there are others to handle all the details.”</p><p>“If I left them up to you it would be a cask of wine and a jug band by a bonfire,” Mia snickers. That didn’t sound bad to him at all, but she was already spinning her ideas. “Oh,” she pauses through her litany of needs for the ball, “and I suspect Caroline will be there.”</p><p>Caroline?</p><p>“Word is she’s stewing mad for fate making you a Duke after all. Shame she couldn’t wait a few years.”</p><p>Caroline. His ex-fiancee. A cannonball lands in Cullen’s gut as he thinks back to the woman that could have been. From the fountain perched beside topiary comes a laugh as golden as a nightingale’s song. Peering through the branches he spots the governess with her sleeves rolled up and skirts lifted as she and Branson splash water at each other. The heartwarming sight melts the shot of metaphorical lead in his gut.</p><p>“Ah,” Mia speaks up, shattering his calm, “And you will require an escort.”</p><p class="p7"> </p><hr/><p class="p6">
  
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Gwen paces the garden after dinner, hoping to stretch her legs as she works off the lamb stew. The oppressive summer sun is finally on its descent allowing the blanket of stars to rise over the indigo sky. She glances heavenward, lost in the beauty of the constellations and nearly misses the jangle of boots upon cobbles.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">At the last moment, she yanks her chin down as Lord Rutherford appears in the midst of the rose bushes. The floral and wine scent erupts into the air as his arm scrapes across the flowerheads. He skitters back on his boots at the surprise of Gwen standing before him.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“My Lord,” she too gasps in surprise. He never wanders the gardens at night, as far as she knew.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Governess,” he responds, a hand parting through the mass of curls on his head. “You’re here,” he points out the obvious, then clacks his teeth as if he realized his error.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Forgive me.” She moves to curtsy, prepared to slink away to her chambers, when he raises a hand.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“No, wait. You should remain, it’s a lovely...” A smile flirts with his lips, drawing her attention to that scar. “It is a lovely night.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Indeed so,” Gwen agrees, dropping her skirts. She does not flee but demures back from the Duke.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“We seem to keep winding about such topics,” he says as if needing to talk to anyone who is not family. There certainly are many of them visiting at the estates as of late. “Weather, my nephew, weather again...”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“They are the most pressing matters of the day,” she responds. “For if we did not have weather to speak of, how would people pass time in parlors? Drinking lukewarm tea and listening to a great aunt’s bunion tale? Perish the thought.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A snicker rolled off his delectable lips, a twin rising upon Gwen’s mouth as well. “I admit,” he says with a sigh, “I was never one for parlors, or salons, or drawing rooms.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“If I may be blunt, Sir?” Gwen speaks without thought. He nods his head, his amber eyes sizing her up, “It is not a striking surprise.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The Duke laughs at that, soothing her concerns. She was always too loose with her tongue, which worked well with children, less so the adults who employed her. “I require action, focus. To linger in a drawing room with naught but the weather to speak of is purgatory for my soul.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I imagine if you were left to your own devices in a parlor, you’d discover a way to turn the furniture into a trebuchet,” Gwen muses to herself before realizing he could overhear her.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">But to her delight, he wrings a hand over his scruff and says, “That is closer to the truth than you might realize.” He leans towards her, the pair walking together through the roses. In a soft voice, he whispers, “When I was a lad, I tried to build a catapult using my mother’s good silverware.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Once I turned my great uncle’s humidor into a house for my toad.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“You kept a toad?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Even made him a tiny table to eat his dinners upon,” Gwen smiles at the old memory, less so her uncle exploding for what she did to his good cigars. They made for perfect toad bedding.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He tips lower, his knees bent as he all but whispers in her ear. “You are a breath of cleaning air, Miss Trevelyan.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“As are...” she turns her gaze from the row of white roses to face him. His lips are quirked to the side, the scar taunting her for a taste. With a slow breath, she whispers, “...you.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Duke Rutherford!” a voice shouts from the house. Both parties leap apart, Gwen’s skin prickling as she realizes how close she drew to the man of the house. A man with no wife. The last thing she needs is another scandal upon her head.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Yes?” The lord turns to the steward bearing down on him. “James, what is it?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“The florist requires your signature,” James hoists out bills of lading while Lord Rutherford pulls into his arms.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Why do we need a florist?” he growls while barely reading over them.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“For the ball, Sir.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“My sister’s influence, of course. Very well, I will handle it,” he wafts his hand through the air, dismissing the steward. Gwen turns to face the north, assuming the Lord will return to his office for longer nights at his desk. When she hears a sigh soft as a feather, she glances over her shoulder.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He stands with shoulders slumped, his head tipped up towards the heavens. With amber eyes shut tight, he whispers, “I never wanted this.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Before Gwen can ask what he means, he returns to his duties as Duke of the manor.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Caroline</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">The palm extends towards his, Cullen stumbling to remember the next step. It is his duty to lead—not only the young lady foisted upon him by a dance card extended out the door, but the entire ball. The estate. His family.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">When did his life become upended in this never-ending traumatic squall?</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She smiles with gritted teeth, trying to ignore his fumble. The orchestra plays at half speed in deference to Cullen’s game leg. He can barely scoot from one end to the other, but there is tradition to uphold, and he is not allowed to refuse. To his relief, the other dancers shy away, revealing another song finished. He tips his head to her to disentangle, but she demures in a soft voice, “Thank you for this dance, Duke Rutherford.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Um, yes, thank you as well, young...lady,” Cullen fumbles shying away from the woman who’s more gel than lady. They’re so young, fresh-faced and barely into the season, and all are placed upon him by his meddling sister.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Before another girl can sweep him away, or the orchestra doom him to his quicksand death, Cullen limps towards Lady Mia. She’s in her usual resplendent gown, speaking to her gaggle of friends that all have titled husbands who are trying to hide on the other side of the ballroom. Her eyes drift to the oncoming storm and she slips a smile on. “Brother.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Your Lordship,” echoes from the flock, women curtsying and Cullen ignores it all. </span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Grabbing his sister by the arm, he says, “If you will excuse me, I need to confer with my loving sister in private.” As the horde all thank him for the wonderful party, the food filling their bellies, and intrigue blackening their souls, Cullen guides Mia towards the back of the room.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I dare say for being such short notice, this is going rather swimmingly,” she says, her lips turned into a smile.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Do not play coy, I know what you’re doing,” Cullen snarls, brandishing a finger at her as if she wasn’t his elder sister.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Trying to cajole my misanthropic brother to speak with another human being who doesn’t work for him? Yes, I can see why you’d feel the need to drag me from my friends for such a slight.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I am...” he thunders before catching the eyes of the other dancers. “I am being nice and social. That is not my concern.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“What then?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“The dance card you filled out without my knowledge. It does not pass me by who is on it, every lady young enough to be a ward, and all without attachments.” He played along with the first few dances, but as Cullen kept turning from one nineteen-year-old face to a twenty or even eighteen his stomach dropped. </span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Mia sighs, her piled coif threatening to topple. “Is it so wrong of me to try and find a duchess for the duke?” </span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Yes!” he shouts. His private life is thus, locked tight behind closed doors and never spoken of. Now Mia wishes to yank it before every eye in the county like a pair of dirty underthings. He wouldn’t hear of it.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A hand cups to his arm, trying to calm the stewing in his breast. “Cullen,” Mia’s consoling eyes meet his. “I know this isn’t what you wanted, what you planned in life, but...” She sighs, gazing out over the happy crowd. Soon they’d be gone, the ballroom covered in sheets for the winter. “Don’t you hate how empty the estates are?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Grief overwhelms him, Cullen taken aback as his mind drudges up the memory of reading the letter. First his brother taken by an illness, then his sister-in-law, and finally the father that doomed him to the title. Branson was spared courtesy of a holiday with his favorite aunt. The large family that once had naught but sunny days was quickly cut in half, only shadows lingering where laughter had been. </span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Mi, I understand your thought, but I am...I am not in a place to open my heart to anyone.” </span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She stares up at him, the only female influence of clan Rutherford forced to guide not only her household but his as well. “You can’t be alone forever, brother, but I will refrain from my matchmaking for the time being.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Lifting the little book that should be in his hands, not hers, Mia inspects his line of purgatory. “What about one more dance?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Mia, my leg is...”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Trust me, you’ll want to take this one,” his sister says. The music swells, ordering all dancers to their posts. Cullen pulls in a breath, prepared to plead with the young lady to let him walk the plank, when a hand crested in jewels grips to this shoulders.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A face he could never forget swept into his way, her blonde hair forming a halo around her head. “Good evening, my Lord,” she says, dipping her patrician chin. “Shall we?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Caroline?” Cullen whispers, giving into the sway of the woman that nearly was his wife.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Waltz</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“Caroline?” his voice catches in his throat, Cullen stumbling into the steps. Without a second’s pause, she swoops around him, guiding him into place. Just as she always had when they were children.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Hello, Lord Rutherford,” she begins, but he grimaces.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Please, Cullen.” They place their palms together, Cullen staring down into her face. He remembers far too well the young child of the Earl who would insist he fetch her an apple from the highest branch the tree. Then, when he inevitably fell, cushion his head in her lap.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">It was decided she was to be his wife before his tenth birthday, neither child thrilled with the prospect. But as time passed, and the fear of girls faded, Cullen found himself warming to the thought. He certainly didn’t suspect he could do better. She seemed excited about the idea of being a Duchess in her own right.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Your husband...?” Cullen stutters, glancing away from the shine of her beauty to the older men clogged together in puffs of smoke. One of the more aging ones is the Count that Caroline pledged herself to. A second wife, no less, with stepchildren older than herself. “Does he not care that we are dancing?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Caroline laughs, her chuckle golden and contained. When he was sixteen, he tickled her so she snorted hard and made him swear he’d never reveal that fact to anyone. Cullen kept his world. “Dear Count Worthington cares little what I do, or who I do it with.” She whispers the last half into Cullen’s ear, causing his body to shiver but a bitterness spreads across his tongue at the thought.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She is a social climber. He ignored the accusations of her family in his younger days, having more pressing concerns. But when he renounced his blood-earned title and enlisted, Cullen quickly learned how he should have listened to the rumors. Still, the reminder of days before tragedy blanketed his home brings a lightness to his step.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Glancing up to him through her lashes, she says, “I am sorry about Branson and your father. They were...good men.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” Cullen’s head drops, his chin striking his cravat. <em>Better than I.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I will be in the county for the summer,” Caroline throws off without a thought. As the song fades through the ballroom, she slips her hand from inside of his to grip his waist. “If you need to talk, I’m always there for you, Cullen.”</span>
</p><p class="p7"> </p><hr/><p class="p7"> </p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen slips into the library, her ears tuned to the muffled natterings of the peerage as they enjoy their dance. After lighting the lone candle upon the desk, she sits in the chair and dips into the ink. While the first three lines fly from her pen, she finds herself stumped upon the next. Her thoughts wander from the pastoral setting in her mind to the man who usually resides where she sits. It smells of him, his oil mixture for the hair with a surprisingly fruity concoction curls off the headrest. A cologne of amber wafts from where her arms sit, and deep from the southern regions of her body a musk that speaks of men braving the oceans with naught but their courage by their side.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She sighs at the metaphorical trip her brain takes from a few scents. Foolish to even wonder. He is a Duke, lord of a manor house, tasked with wooing all the lovely women of wealthy and noble families right beyond those doors. The chances of him looking upon her were as high as Merlin emerging from his cave.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Chuckling to herself at such an idea, Gwen dives back into her writing when the knob to the library begins to turn. An amorous couple hoping to avoid public and scandal? She grabs onto her few papers knowing she has no leg to stand on to remain when golden curls slip inside.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He closes the door quickly behind him but walks no closer. With his back placed to the wood he tips his head up, eyes closed, and pulls in a cleansing breath. She saw a hint of his regalia for the night, while young Master Branson was put to bed. But with him so distracted, Gwen drinks in the perfect cut of his coat, navy blues in deference to his past. How the vest of a brocade silver is tailored tighter than most to his stomach, and the cravat already being unfurled by his fingers as if he cannot breathe.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Oh, God. She should leave. She shouldn’t be here. He clearly didn’t anticipate...</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Amber eyes land upon her, Duke Rutherford realizing that he is not alone. An undignified snort erupts from her nose, Gwen raising a shoulder. To her surprise and relief, he chuckles, his head dropping to his chest. “We meet again.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Forgiveness, I...”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Wanted to enjoy the garden?” He wafts his hand to the closed window, the blooms waning by summer’s heat.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I’m afraid the flowers are all sleeping.” Gwen sighs while hefting up the manuscript she should have worked on in her room.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He notices the stack in her arms and asks, “What were you doing? Candlelight is a strain to read by.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“One that I’d often suffer regardless,” Gwen admits before wincing. His eyes, sharp as a lion’s in the tall grass, won’t leave her arms. “I’m...I’m writing a book. Trying to. It’s nothing important. Frivolous nonsense, but...”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“A,” Duke Rutherford raises his chin, his tongue ticking in thought, “a book? What is it about?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Strings of the orchestral symphony slither through the cracks in the door, the rugged man’s stern face softened by either the amber flare of candlelight or his childlike curiosity. Gwen, who’d been hiding her book’s creation for years, opens her lips, and let’s slip, “Love.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Hm,” he snorts, no doubt dismissing the silly subject out of hand. “I’m afraid I don’t have much advice on the subject.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“It’s all well and good. I only, I...” She’s trapped, the Duke remaining by the door so she cannot flee up to her room and bury her head in her pillow. Who tells a Duke that they’re writing a book about love? Foolish girls with fluff for brains. “I thought with the party you’d be too busy to need your office and...”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“You write here?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“When I can,” she admits, Lord Rutherford finally moving free of the door towards his desk. Gwen can run for it, but suddenly she’s curious to remain. “I cannot explain why, but it feels as if the shackles of writer's block lift when I sit at the desk. Your desk. Which I shouldn’t do, I...”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He raises a hand, silencing her babble. “If I am not requiring it for all the bills of lading, you are free to make use of it. I’d never thought it a source of creativity before.” Running a finger over the edge, he whispers, “To me, it was a yoke. But it’s nice to know that it can be other things.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“My Lord?” There’s pain in his voice, buried under protocol and politeness, but she can practically taste it in the air. How his eyes drift across the room, shuddering at edges that aren’t right. The Duke raises his head, his wounded but shielded eyes meeting hers. “Are you well?” Her question bulges in the air, the man seeming to weigh it as if he should tell her, as if she knew a tonic to cure him of clear heartache.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I could call the Steward?” Gwen throws out, scrambling to find her place.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Rutherford smirks with his scar, shaking his furrowed brow. “No need. May I ask you something though?” He barely pauses for her nod before beginning, “What is it in a woman’s makeup that causes her to obsess about fixing a man? About ensuring that his wishes be ignored and trampled over because she knows best?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">This must be about his sister. The Lord certainly made no bones about his disapproval of the ball, or any of Lady Mia’s other changes. But badmouthing one Rutherford to another seems unwise. “Sir, if I may...we are bred from the nursery to heal, to comfort and help in any way we can. While our strengths may be limited, and our approach seemingly unwanted by those we care for, it comes from a good place.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">His mood lifts as a smile brightens upon his handsome face. Nodding, he says, “Thank you, Lady Trevelyan. You’ve given me a...helpful perspective I had not considered.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Always happy to serve, my Lord,” she crosses her legs and dips, her arms too full for a proper curtsy.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Knocking the door handle open with her elbow, Gwen prepares to leave when the Lord speaks once more. “I am glad that you answered the job.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She glances back, awash in the warm glow across his face. The smile stretches from his lips to his eyes, brightening the room against the darkness. “As am I, Sir.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Baths</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">An inhuman groan peels from Cullen’s lips as he lowers his weary body into the steaming water. The old tin tub clangs when his backside sinks to the bottom, more water slopping over the side than he anticipated. Too many days trapped in his office and not enough in the field.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Sir,” a lone voice calls from the sitting room to his sleeping chambers. “Do you think you will require my assistance?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Sighing, Cullen tips his head back and says, “No James. I believe I can handle a bath.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I’m needed down at the southern wing of the estate, but if you think...”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“For god’s sake, Jim. I’m a grown man. I do not need to be coddled like a babe,” Cullen spits, weary of the constant groveling. He winces at his tone even if the anger feels right.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Very good, Sir.” Only the sound of the closing door answers after that curt dismissal. No doubt the lower stairs would be gossiping about their brute of a Duke for that one.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Bunching his knees up, Cullen drags his head below the soapy surface. Just before his face slips under the water, he pulls in a breath to embrace his submersion. The other officers hazed him something awful when he appeared on deck, green as the algae. A true sailor, a man worthy of the salt, could hold his breath for at least four minutes underwater. Cullen trained his lungs every chance he could, even when he was expected to remain dry on deck. He never could last longer than three minutes before aching for air.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Concussions rattle around him, the explosions dampened by the water. He tries to keep his eyes closed, salt already crusting over his lashes, when a hand pushes against his back. Cullen’s eyes open upon a lagoon of blood swirling like wet fog from the mass of bodies tumbling to the sea.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gasping, he sits up fast in the bath, the jangled memories seeping off his body like nightmares come dawn. Some nights he turns to find it is his brother’s or father’s dismembered hand pressing against his back. Others, it’s the same nameless limb as from the Atlantic. The ghosts will not cease haunting him, the man entrusted to their care, the one who lost the battle but won the war. The dead care little if their sacrifice was warranted.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">With both hands, Cullen massages across his temples, trying to worry away the unending cloud. To think, the day had begun rather delightfully. Caroline invited him to bowl on her lawn. He’d adored the game as a child and often won quite a few tournaments as he aged. At first, it was relaxing to fall back to the familiar, Caroline directing him to the proper manners of the day, guiding him to who mattered and who was on the outs. For a time, he felt all of 17 again, uncertain about this nobility curse placed upon his head, but trusting that he’d somehow figure it out.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Then his knee twisted on a throw, the ball careening so wildly off course it looked more like a cannonball aiming to take out a leg. Cullen kept himself upright; a Duke rolling upon the ground in pain was undignified after all. But the reality crashed hard around him. He wasn’t a spotty youth savoring time in the sun. He was a broken man tricked by fate into the life he tried to run from. Unending efforts to prove himself beyond the family title, and all he got was a game leg and the same yoke as before.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Reaching for the end table, Cullen uncorks one of the medicine bottles. The stench reminds him of horses, not the animal itself, but something in the care needed to keeping them going. He’s not certain what’s in it, only that the doctors told him to rub it into his knee every other day for the pain.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Funny, he thinks to himself while loading up his palms and slathering the herbal oil over his knee. If he were a horse, they’d have put him down for such an injury. The musket ball wobbles under his skin as he rubs. It’d been trapped too deep for the doctors to remove before, but somehow in the years hence it moved. He often finds himself pressing against the ball, wringing it through the small pocket under his skin. While there is pain for such a move, it is nominal, and the feel oddly centers him when he sits in dull meetings.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">No doubt a doctor would shout him stupid for such a folly, and be right to do it too. He should tend to himself, he is the last remaining head of the household.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen snarls at the thought and grows tired of the pruning around his fingers and toes. Grabbing both hands to the sides of the tub, he begins to rise -- when a searing pain pierces from his knee down the length of his calf. He crumbles to the water, his backside bounding against the bottom and curling him over in agony. Water gurgles into his gaping mouth, but he barely notices, spraying it back out as he crumples deeper to try and wick away the pain.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“James? Hello?” His pride crumbles as Cullen realizes that he cannot escape the bath alone. “Is anyone out there?” Only crickets respond to the Duke’s command. Delightful. How else could he be humiliated today?</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Hello?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">No. No, no, it cannot be...</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The door doesn’t open, but he hears her body press tighter to it as she asks, “My Lord, do you require assistance?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The Governess is the only person near enough to hear him. “No!” he cries, his body blushing at the thought of her having to haul him from the briny depths. Of her delicate fingers swept over his arms, her shoulders providing a crutch below his helpless body.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“As you say,” she says, clearly put off by his dismissal.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Wait,” he speaks, wounded by his own barbed tongue. Wait how? How can she possibly be of assistance? “I am...I require assistance,” Cullen admits, his face cringing at the thought. “I am trapped in the...bathtub.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Oh? Oh...” Her eagerness to help slams into a wall as she realizes what that means.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Perhaps you can fetch the Steward, or another man wandering the halls to...” he begins when the door swings open. On instinct, Cullen pulls his naked body deeper into the tub in order to disguise as much as he can. Lady Trevelyan walks in with her hands extended outward and a handkerchief knotted over her eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">When she bumps into a table, she leans to the right and gasps. “Can you guide me towards you? I’m not certain where I’m heading.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Forward,” he squeaks realizing that the woman is dead set on helping him. Which means she will have to touch him. The flush burns to a crisp across his entire body, Cullen boiling like a prawn in his own soup. “A little closer,” his lips fumble as the woman glides into his bed chambers. She may not be able to see anything, but the fact she’s even willing to risk so much to help him is...confounding.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Her fingers slide first against the lip of the tub, then cup the back of his naked shoulder. As she gets a grip on his skin, her touch warm and gentle, she says, “Could you put my hands where you need them?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The trust is nearly insurmountable, Cullen wondering what she’d do if he turns out to be a cad. If anyone in the ton heard of this… But, as he wants to be free of this unending nightmare, he pulls her hand around to the other side of his shoulders. “Dip down, please,” he orders, his own wet hand gripping to her pretty dress. He had never noticed before how well it frames her chest or that the color harmonizes with her deep green eyes mercifully hidden behind her blindfold.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Lift,” Cullen commands, both of them straining as he puts half of his weight on his undamaged leg, and the rest upon her. She does not speak a word against it, Miss Trevelyan waiting patiently for her next step. Standing on one leg, Cullen stares out over the floor he must cross. Stepping over the tub requires him to slide her hand lower.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Mother Mary, forgive me for this. Wrapping his hand over the top of hers, Cullen pulls her hands down until it rests at the start of his waist. He pushes her fingers in, trying to tell her that she will have to grip against him no matter how much it might disgust her. But the Governess seems unsurprised. “Ready?” she whispers, and Cullen counts down. Once one is reached, her strength transfers to her arm and the pair haul him clean out of the tub and to the floor.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Quickly, he hobbles for his bed and the long nightgown he knows can hide his shame. Even as the pair limp together in a childish three-legged race, he feels the flush pooling in his loins and growing more turgid with each step. <em>That is not helping!</em></span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">At the bed, he lunges free of the Governess, snatching up towels to envelop around his hips. All the while she remains poised, her hands cupped to her stomach as if she didn’t mind having to carry him. Cullen snarls to himself, “Foolish, impotent, having to be helped from the tub as if I am some child or the elderly.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">His fussing freezes when he feels her delicate fingertips glance against his back. They press to the linen he threw across him, but with his body yet wet it sticks tight. “We all have bad days, my Lord. It is not wrong to need help every now and again.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I...” He turns to the woman who trudged into his bed chambers even knowing he was without clothing to help him. If any knew, if any heard of this, she could never escape such a scandal. Yet she didn’t even hesitate. Tipping his head down, Cullen confesses, “Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done without your help.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Pickled, most likely,” she says with a laugh bringing a smile to him as well. “Do you require anything else?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“No, no, I’m... Dood evening, Miss Trevelyan.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“To you as well,” she says with a bob of her head. Turning on a dime, she exits his bed chambers with her hands extended outward for guidance.</span>
</p><p class="p7"> </p><hr/><p class="p7">
  
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Unable to handle the shame of his bungle, Cullen avoids the Governess and all bodies of water for a day. Exhausted and weary, when he returns to his bed chambers, he’s shocked to find a rope attached to a pulley system strung from his ceiling to the side of his empty tub.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“James?” he shouts to the Steward ordered to never leave his side. “What’s this?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Ah, Miss Trevelyan’s idea.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“She put this in?” Cullen marvels, tugging on the rope. The pull is clean and sturdy, the wheels oiled to not even whine.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, she said it was to assist you should you ever need help,” James explains with his back straight. No doubt the servants gossiped like wet hens over their Duke’s latest escapade.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen bends down to inspect the knots on the sandbag to counter his weight. Strong, unbreakable. A sailor’s knot. “Miss Trevelyan, is she...?” he begins, before shaking the foolish thought off. Women weren’t sailors. And James stares in anticipation of a command. Blushing, Cullen finishes, “Thank her for me, and please reimburse her for her work designing this.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Of course, my Lord,” James says while bowing to take his leave.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Miss Trevelyan,” Cullen whispers to himself, “you are an ocean of surprises.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Death</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“Branson!”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The boy vanishes into a stand of reeds, the soppy sound of squelching mud erupting from the lake’s shore. He’d been under orders to not get his clothing wet, but it is often difficult to get seven-year-olds to listen. Not that their skills improve with age, the men from 17-25 believing their ears too pure to be sullied by suggestions. Somewhere around age 75 or so, they finally begin to pay attention to a woman’s voice, if only so she does not force him to fend for himself for the first time in his life.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen hefts up her skirts, prepared to waterlog her shoes to chastise the boy. The day proved too hot for study, even her eyes wandering off the lesson plans. She thought visiting the lake a delightful way to cool down. Fool she was, forgetting the allure of leaping feet first into muck and mud.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Young Master,” Gwen calls, shoving aside the reeds. His tiny back is turned to her, Branson squatting in a puddle of soggy grass with a stick in hand. Rather than turn to her, he continues to prod at something in the grass.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“We should really return to the estate,” she says for his attention. “It will be tea soon.” The promise of cakes doesn’t pull the boy from whatever he found. He moves to stab the end of the stick deep into the ground when he freezes, the gangly limbs steel.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Dead,” Branson whispers. Gwen stomps into the puddle, prepared to tug the boy back to safety, when she glances down. Right at the edge of his stick floats a small panfish. Its eyes and scales are white as a shroud, the mouth gaping while it bobs on the water. The boy doesn’t stab into his find, but he bends closer to stare at it. “Everything dies,” he whispers, his usually jovial tone somber.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Ah,” Gwen calls, watching the orphaned child dip his palms under the dead fish. She’s about to tell him to not touch what could be diseased when wide brown eyes turn to her.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">With the half-eaten fish perched in his hand, Branson pleads, “Can we bury it, please?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Nodding, Gwen takes the dead fish in her own fingers. The odor is so pungent it turns her stomach, but she grits through as the grief-stricken boy stares down at a fact of life so complicated men of God scarcely understand. “Come along. We can bury it in the sand by the shore.”</span>
</p><p class="p9"> </p><p class="p9"> </p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1"> After singing a dirge for a dead fish, Gwen guides Branson back to the house. Her brain churns with discussions she must have with the man of the house, but no idea how to even begin. While she knew she was walking into a manor of grief, she assumed after a year both would have processed their mourning. Clearly, that wasn’t done.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The black cloud hangs over the young man, Branson's head swaying on his weary neck as he trudges up the steps. One of the maids catches sight of his muddy trousers and boots, insisting the boy clean himself before dirtying the rest of the house. Gwen cups his shoulders, her own heart shivering from the grief in his eyes while he bends down to do as told.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">At that moment, a measured clop of hooves causes her to look up into the proud Duke perched on one of his beautiful Arabian mares. It’s now or never. “Head in for tea,” Gwen whispers to Branson who nods dutifully, until she adds, “You can have my cakes as well.” The eyes shine bright at her promise, reminding her that under the titles and grief there is still a child.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">As he dashes inside for the promised treat, Gwen hauls off after the duke. He’s barely moving at a walk, giving her ample opportunity to call for him, “My Lord!”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Ah.” The duke barely tugs on the reins, the horse seeming to read his thoughts as both come to a stop. His head swivels to follow Gwen pausing beside the saddle. “Governess?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Sir, if I may, I need to speak with you.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Continue.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">As the fullness of his attention lands on her, Gwen realizes that due to his being propped up in the saddle her resting eye-line is directly into his lap. Precisely where a lady should not stare! Craning her head up, the sun blinding her eyes, she gulps. “It’s about Master Branson. I fear that...he seems to be...”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Is this regarding his lessons? Is he having troubles?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“No, no.” Gwen shakes her head. “He is a very bright child.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The duke smirks, Gwen enthralled at how his palm cups and wrings against the saddle horn. “He gets that from his mother,” the man says what is clearly a family joke to poke at his brother, before the cracks return. The dead brother, and dead sister-in-law—it is clear that even he yet suffers, never mind the child who lost both parents.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">And she would really prefer to have this discussion without a crick in her neck. “This may take some time,” Gwen begins, rubbing into the back of her neck.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I see.” The duke seems to realize it is not a simple matter. She moves to slide back, expecting him to dismount, when his large hand catches hers. Breath traps in her throat, Gwen staring agog at his gloveless fingers gliding over hers. “Join me?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“What?” she gasps, shock causing her to stare directly into his amber eyes. He wasn’t of the same cloth as her previous employers. Never outright forbid her for such a slight against his standing, but she defaulted to being the demure governess. As the full flames of his bourbon gaze burns through her, she realizes it was done for more than tradition.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Twisting his head, Duke Rutherford says, “My horse and I both require exercise, and we can talk on the trail.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">So he wants her to walk along beside his horse. That’s not a problem. Bobbing her head, Gwen says, “Of course...” When he bends down. The hand holding hers pulls her closer to his body as the second hand swoops down over her waist. Before she’s aware of what’s happening, she flies through the air at his whims. Her backside lands on the horse’s directly behind the duke. Gwen crosses her legs, her body turned to the side to accommodate her skirts. The drumbeat of her heart scatters from the shock of how easily he plucked her from the ground into his arms.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">No, not his arms. Onto his horse. Was that less romantic?</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Well situated?” the duke asks, causing her to nod her head dumbly. “Then you might want to grip tight,” he says while clicking the horse into a trot.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1"><em>Hold on to what?</em> Her hands fumble for the saddle to keep her body upright when the ebony horse under them increases to a gallop. On instinct, Gwen sweeps her hands around the Duke’s midsection, her cheek burying into the finery on his back. He gives no indication that he minds, and instead spurs the horse on faster to increase her grip.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">With the manor fading into the distance, Duke and Governess vanish into the countryside with nary another soul in sight.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Steed</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Crisp greens of a cool summer part overhead, the whole of the forest swallowing their horse as they slip deeper into the foliage. In the past months since arriving at the Honnleath estates, Gwen explored the neighboring gardens and the pond with her charge. Never once did she dare think to leap into the tangled forests beyond, but the Duke didn’t bat an eye.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">With her cheek pressing into his back, her hand loosens from its grip on his taut stomach. Then the horse leaps over a downed log, and Gwen digs in even tighter than before. She somehow works her hand under his Lordship’s vest, only a linen shirt keeping her from touching his naked skin. A blush burns over her cheeks at the memory that she knew what his unclothed belly felt of -- warm, pliant, and intoxicating.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Are you yet behind me?” the duke asks, his voice light and airy as if he need only escape the looming shadow of the estate to find himself.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I pray so, otherwise I am uncertain who is responding to you,” Gwen answers, and a chuckle rumbles under her spread palm. How would it feel to touch his chest as he succumbs to laughter from her wit?</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“You said that you needed to speak to me,” he prompts, shaking away her foolish thoughts.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, it is...regarding your nephew,” Gwen begins. She’d trudged over to him without pause, concerned only for her charge. But now, the pair alone in the trees, her nerve crumbles. Not many men are trained in mulling over their emotions, nor turning them productive. It seems doubtful for the duke to be out of the ordinary.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“What of him?” he continues, his honeyed voice turning sour at her silence.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I am concerned about him, and his...” She tries to power through her fear, when the horse leaps another stump. Her backend flies off the bareback of the steed, Gwen gasping in shock. On instinct, she grips both hands around the duke’s stomach and buries her entire face into his back. Perhaps it is the cries of fear of her tumbling from the horse, or he’s growing more incensed at her silence, but the rapid trotting slows.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Clicking the horse over a creek, water splashing up her boots and dangling skirts, the Duke says, “Perhaps it would be best to speak on solid ground.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, yes.” She nods her head against his solid back before leaning away. “If you would so please.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">With an unassailable assurance, his Lordship slows the horse to a standstill, the edges of his heels barely brushing into the ribs. After rubbing along the ebony mane, he raises a foot and slides to the forest floor below. Gwen grabs the saddle and the standing horse, prepared to push herself off, when gentlemanly hands envelop her waist. In shock, she falls directly into the amber eyes she now towers over, the duke graciously guiding her to the ground.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">For a brief moment, after leaving the horse and before striking the fallen leaves, she’s in his arms. Nothing to support her gentle fall but his strong body. When she plops into her shoes, she stares entranced up at the man who was only trying to keep her from harming herself. That must be why.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Though, it is harder to explain the palms lingering around her waist, the forelock nearly brushing against the top of her head, and the eyes burning into hers. “Thank you,” Gwen whispers, her body trembling at the nearness of such a man.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The duke steps away, no doubt remembering her waning position in the world as he adjusts the cuffs of his jacket. “You are...” A hint of a smile warms his lips and he says, “Happy to assist.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Her stomach tries to bubble in warmth at the sweet sentiment on his sculpted lips, but there are other matters at hand. Placing her palms to her belly to try and calm both the jitters and butterflies, she says, “While Branson is often a happy child, finding play when he can between and sometimes during lessons...”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The duke sighs, his eyes softly rolling as if he expects as such from his nephew.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“...there are days when he grows morbid.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Morbid? By what do you mean?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The fascination with death, a certainty that all things would die, and an almost embrace of his own. She wouldn’t say he wishes to harm himself, but at his young age, he was dealt a hard blow from life. In one month, those most important to him were all taken by death’s skeletal hand and it left the boy bereft of a lifeboat save the man glaring down at her.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Do you speak to him of his father and mother?” Gwen is the one who winces, fearing reprisals in an instant. Many houses would often ban the name of those who pass, as much to bury the dead as to hide from their own pain.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">To her surprise, the duke draws his palm over the nape of his neck and digs in. “Not as often as I should. He has questions, so many that I cannot answer. I...I was often abroad during Branson’s life, and only met his mother twice before her...” The word stings his tongue, the duke spitting it out as if he swallowed a bee by mistake.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Pain dogs his every step, the emotional draining him more than the physical. At the estate, he ignores it, only speaking of current affairs. But here, free from the long hand of the title and peerage, he seems to unwind to her.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Forgetting everything she ever learned, Gwen curls her hand around his biceps in comfort. “It is natural to mourn.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“A year and a half after their funeral?” The man who seems to live for schedules and expectations scoffs.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Yes. Two years, five, eternity. No one can replace what was lost.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">His Lordship’s fingers curl over the back of hers. Gwen holds her breath, but he presses her tighter to him instead of peeling her off. “How are you so wise for your age?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Those amber eyes dancing like the flames of candles beside an open window peer deeper into hers as if he’s divining for her soul. “I’m not as young as I look,” Gwen coughs out for a distraction and Cullen laughs at her answer.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I’m afraid I am your complete opposite in that regard, older in both wear and time in the mirror,” the young duke groans as if a few years of heartache aged him a decade. While the wrinkles wear on his face, it is most certainly a handsome build and one to catch any lucky lady’s eye.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Which is not a matter for a Governess to tell her employer. “Regarding your nephew,” she says by way of distraction from her throbbing heart, “perhaps it would help to improve his mood to involve him with peers, other children in play. A day of innocence.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A smile warm as sunshine rises across the duke’s dour lips. “An excellent idea. I’m certain Caroline knows of a get-together for the young children in the county.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Caroline? How informal. Gwen buries her sudden burst of jealousy deep, her face neutral as his Lordship quickly plans how best to go about contacting this woman. After speaking to himself, the duke glances to her and sheepishness crawls across his cheeks. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“It’s my job to keep the young Master healthy, and that requires happiness.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A snort tumbles from the duke’s nose. “I’d never thought of such, but these are the days of his highest joys.” The clouds roll in across his brow as he turns to the horse. “He best enjoy them as long as possible.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She came to this job having no intentions to speak to the lord of the manner for more than a few moments a day. Dukes were supposed to be geriatric, cruel, and callow, with cold eyes and sharp tongues.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">How is her first one the exact opposite? Dangerously handsome, tender in his actions, aloof and uncertain with society functions, but kind when one-on-one? “I should thank you in person for your pulley system,” the confounding man says, reminding her how for a brief moment she was in the same room as his naked body. She saw nothing, but his sweet musk permeated her palms and the side of her dress for the entire night. “I should not have avoided it for over a fortnight.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Scratching her cheek, Gwen admits, “It could be considered scandalous if the wrong ears hear of it. I fully understand pretending none of it happened.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">His lips open wide as if he’s about to disagree and that her moment of ingenuity is worth remembering or recording. But he closes his mouth and nods to her. “Understood. And I should return to the estate before my knee cramps up and you are forced to carry me.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The duke guides his horse around, Gwen waiting for the man to lift himself into the saddle when he extends a hand to her. At her quizzical look, he asks, “May I?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">With a smile and nod, she places her palms against his shoulders as those strong hands once against pluck her up at the waist. This time she savors in the freedom of flight at the strength of the man far, far above her in station. But, on the trip back, Gwen nuzzles her cheek to his back and lets herself fantasize about what could be.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Clouds</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Despite the grey clouds blotting out the sky, the unending giggles warm Cullen’s burred heart. He watches from his vantage beside the other titled men as Branson chases after one of Caroline’s youngest. The boy clearly has something unholy on a stick, which he seems hellbent on jabbing at the girl in skirts. But an angel in green sweeps up from the side, snatching away the dangerous stick before there can be any tears.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The governess gives an order to Branson, no doubt full of instructions on how girls don’t enjoy being smothered in mud. Cullen thinks back to her shoes and ankles caked in red-brown mud from his sudden trot to the creek. He didn’t realize the folly of his mistake until they were on the path, the man of action unused to the hand-tying rules he should have grown up with. Though, it was a treat to feel her cheek pressing to her back, and her hands coyly curled around his stomach.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Duke of Honnleath,” a voice oozes from the refreshment table, and Cullen’s heart sinks along with his eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Outfitted in a scandalous scarlet frock coat, the gold vest unbuttoned and unadorned with a proper ascot to reveal a shock of chest hair, stands Master Tethras. Merchant by trade, and rumormonger for pleasure, the man whose pride revolves around knowing the comings and goings of every member of the peerage snatches up a cucumber sandwich and waves it at Cullen.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Never thought I’d see the newest duke at such a gathering,” Varric says while chomping down on the finger food.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen folds his hands, his chin rising while his eyes strain to keep the short man in focus. “The birthday party may be a small affair, but that does not deter me.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Oh no, we’re all surprised that you left your dark tower and throne of bones by the fire to rattle around with such mortals. There’s talk that you even have a wife living in the attic at that massive estate.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Snarling, Cullen rolls his eyes. “Do not be ridiculous. I’m not married.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Master Tethras raises a glass of wine at the news, “And you just breathed life into an entire generation of maidens who were facing a rather dull season. Congratulations.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Fully scowling from his eyebrows down to the whitening hair on his chest, Cullen whips away from the pretend merchant to gaze across the lawn. While the children are enjoying their freedom, many stripping off constricting jackets and knots in order to play, the young mothers keep glancing in his direction. And even worse are the ones without children, their eyes seeming to strip him to his bones with every breath.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Oh dear, what’s brought that sour puss out to view?” Caroline dances through the herd of onlookers as if she floats on air. The Countess curls a hand around Cullen’s arm, guiding him in a dance without music.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">When he glances to the cause of his dour mood, Caroline laughs. “Do not let Master Tethras strike at you. Everyone knows he only peddles in japes and jests.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Indeed, Madam. For the truth is nothing but a joke to those with bricks for brains.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen bristles at the obvious jab, but Caroline shakes it off. While he was dodging cannons and musket balls, she was sharpening her teeth on polite sneers, and complimentary denigrations. With a shake of her golden hair, Caroline guides the grumbling duke away from the flock.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He struggles against his cane, his leg seizing up. Glancing to the clouds darkening with the hour, Cullen sighs. “I fear there will be rain soon.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Is that why you’re in the mood you are? I don’t remember you despising storms so when we were children.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“That was before I knew what one at sea was,” Cullen whispers to himself, his shoulders hardening as he girds himself. Memories lap against his calm exterior, trying to rip apart the bricks he put in place.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A warm cheek brushes against his arm, Cullen glancing down into bright blue eyes. All the years between them fade at the smile rising on her cheeks. “You’re more than welcome to remain for the night should the storm turn dangerous. We could even sit up the whole night in our fortification of pillows and blankets.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He laughs at the old antics the children with no one else to play with got up to. “I’m afraid I might be too big to hide under the bed now.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Hmmm,” Caroline mutters, her eyes deliberately drinking in his strapping shoulders, down his waist, and clearly pausing at his loins. The blatancy of her hunger causes his heart to beat rapidly, when he remembers she is a married woman and not his. Cullen shifts, trying to put his hip in place as he gazes out over the lawn.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The children tire of their game and lay out on the grass, hands gesturing to the clouds while they probably spin exciting fairy stories for each other. Branson sits up, hands gripping to his knees but he’s listening intently and even speaking with the other children. The flush on his cheeks and bright movements warm Cullen’s heart.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you for this, Caroline. I pray this is just what he needed.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Sweeping in beside him, her hand sliding between Cullen’s arm and chest, she locks their arms together. “I’m here for you, Cullen. No matter what you need.” Her bright eyes dart up from under her lashes, but Cullen gazes away, watching the woman in a green dress chasing a butterfly for the children.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">As a smile rises on his lips, thunder strikes overhead.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Lightning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Rain sleets against the windows, Cullen left with the other male refugees as the thunder continues to batter past the afternoon and into the night. While some of the party guests took their leave when the first drops fell, others remained. Now they are all trapped together in the drawing-room eyeing up the count’s brandy.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Despite his age, the count is a spry man, his hair more snow than pepper, with a long mustache curled at the ends twitching with every sip. Cullen had to bite his lip to keep from slipping and calling the count “Old Man.” Doubtful the landlubber would appreciate the term, even if it is meant with no offense.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Another thunderclap rattles the roof, all the heads clouded in smoke tipping up to watch the candelabra’s flames tremble in the storm. “A good thing we retired to indoors,” the count chuffs to the rest, most his close friends, before the milky eyes drift over to the duke in residence. “And how is his newest Lordship handling a storm on land?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Easier than if at sea,” Cullen admits. “Less need to tie someone to the mast.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Give it a few more drinks, and I suspect Master Blackwall will require such medicine,” Tethras crowed to the delight of all save Master Blackwall.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The chill creeping over the floor twists about Cullen’s calves, his knee once again cramping from the pressure of the storm. Weary from the long ride and, even knowing he will not sleep well, he rises to his feet. “If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I believe I shall retire.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A few bow their heads, others narrow their eyes at the early-to-bed duke. The count moves to rise as if the elder man must stand in deference to the younger, but Cullen waves his hand. “Did my wife show you where you shall bed for the night?” he asks seriously.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen shakes his head. “No.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Surprising,” the count muses to himself before whipping out, “The guest quarters are the third door on the left up the stairs. I trust you can find them on your own.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Bowing his head while tasting venom in the air, Cullen turns towards the door. On his escape, he hears Master Tethras begin to spin another yarn. “Word is that Honnleath’s estates are draining coin faster than...”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The words fade with the door shut, those men free to drink themselves into a stupor and wake in their waistcoats the next morn. Cullen had enough of that in his younger days where people judged you less on the deck of a ship. And he only really drank to forget twice--once when learning from his sister of Caroline’s marriage, and then the news of his brother. He’d been on the road when the death of his father hit him, the new Duke of Honnleath officially bestowed such a title while he vomited in a ditch. That was unlikely to make it into the family’s annals of history or upon a crest.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Shaking off the dour thoughts no doubt turning his flesh a discomforting yellow, Cullen slips into the guest quarters. The room is lavish, unsurprising for a guest with ties to royalty, and darkened even with a fire struggling to catch courtesy of the winds whipping down the chimney. Cullen begins to unbutton his vest, his coat slipping off his shoulders, when a shadow moves off the bed.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Light strikes a candle illuminating a pile of gold hair. As she places the candle next to the bed, Caroline stands to her full height. And she is nearly naked!</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">In naught but a pale chemise cut at the knee, Caroline glides one leg before the other, drawing Cullen’s eyes to the shapely and fully nude bottom half. “What are you...?” he sputters, partially trapped by the panic and also, yes, the lust he thought he’d buried at sea all those years hence.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Caroline’s warm fingers curl over his arm, her lips parted as she whispers, “Cullen, I’ve missed you. Tell me you missed me.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He shudders at the old game she played when they were children, his would-be fiancé always demanding that he tell her he missed her. And he did. Often. Caroline was a source of calm in his turbulent life, until he cast off every thread of the world she wanted to be in. Still...</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Her lovely face bobs an inch from him, her hands gliding from his arms, over his shoulders, and behind his neck. Cullen gulps, falling into her crystal blue eyes as he leans forward. The kiss is the same as when they were young adults, Caroline insisting her future husband needed to know how to share affection properly. It took him ages to get it right, Caroline instructing on the proper amount of pressure, speed, and -- eventually -- tongue.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">As she opens her lips to his, Cullen’s dead hand wrapping around her cheek, he’s instantly transported back. No wounds from battle, no scars and callouses from the sea, no title and lands strapped to his back. They’re barely on the cusp of adulthood, ditched their chaperones at Caroline’s insistence, and discovered each other beside the seashore.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The kiss fades, Cullen’s buzzing lips confessing, “I missed you.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Then,” she picks up his left hand in hers, placing it first to her lips, then around her barely clothed waist, “have me.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">At first, he trails her the step towards the bed, his mind cradled in the fluff of the past. Then pain jars up his wounded leg, reminding him of who he is and, more importantly, who she is.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Caroline, stop!” Cullen gasps, his legs locked in place. “We can’t do this. You can’t do this.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Why?” Her voice is soft and tender, as if she’s trying to calm a dog scared of the storm.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“You’re married. You, you belong to someone else.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">That causes her to frown, her hand dropping off of him. “And I was nearly married to you. I almost belonged to you. Imagine it so, we are man and wife for a night, free to finally share our marital bed as it should be.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He trembles, the intimacy of the room lit only by the fireplace and a strike of lightning playing a tune against his libido. It has been some time since Cullen dared seek any to share his bed. He thought with his title it would be years longer until his rakish side would emerge.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>Is this what you want, Cullen? To take another man’s wife in the dead of night like some craven scallywag and sit at his breakfast table the next morning pretending nothing happened?</em>
  </span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Stop,” he pleads, his voice bleating like the lost lamb he knows himself to be. Caroline does pause a moment, but tugs on his fingers again. “This isn’t right!”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She scoffs, a hand placed to her nearly naked hip. “If you are worried about the man of the house, he hardly cares what I do. He has his own excursions to town.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A valid excuse, God knew Cullen heard enough rumors of who was keeping which mistress and where while growing up. But another thought stings deep in his soul. With wounded eyes, he gazes at the beautiful woman who abandoned him to the sea. “Is this how you would have treated me had we married?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Cullen!” she gasps, but the doubt is already spoiling the mood.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He turns away to glare at the door. “I will leave you to dress...alone. Please, exit my room for the evening Countess Geoffry.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Caroline’s gasp at her official title sounds as if he punched her in the stomach, but Cullen shies away from comforting her. That is her husband’s duty now, not his. With a heavy sigh, he pulls open the door and retreats to the hallway.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The pacing, wreaking havoc on his knee, does little to quell the rising venom in his blood. How dare she ambush him so? How could she put him in such a position unannounced while he is still mourning his father? Should be mourning his father and brother. Cullen knows he’d buried himself in the estate’s minor matters to avoid all that pesky acknowledging his pain. It seemed more proper than falling apart alone in his rooms.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He turns a corner in the winding halls and spies a sprig of green amongst the desolate greys of the manor. Governess Trevelyan cups a candle in her hand, the other pressed to the glass pane as she stares out across the horizon. Cullen clomps closer, but she does not turn at his labored sounds.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Suddenly, a bolt of lightning strikes close to the countryside, causing the dear lady to leap back. Cullen’s hands lash out to catch her, the cane tumbling to the floor. Her face whips over her shoulder, shock etched across those verdant eyes. “Milord,” she mutters, moving to curtsy but Cullen still has his hands curled around her back.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Realizing his error, he snakes them away and stares down at the fallen cane. Bending to retrieve it will be a nightmare, so he settles on leaning against the wall beside the window. “What are you doing awake? Branson...?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Is sleeping like a little lamb,” she assures him. “I’m afraid I do not handle thunder as well as a boy.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He gazes out across the bleak landscape streaked with bolts of white-hot light indeterminately. “I hate it as well,” Cullen admits. He never cared much when younger, but a year at sea and...</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen whispers in a stricken voice, “I need to see the horizon whenever I hear a thunderclap.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Me too,” he says, turning to this woman he knows next to nothing about. Aside from her ability to tie sailor knots and despising lightning. And her kindness, generosity, ability to read people, care for his nephew, a bright spirit that shines brighter than any he’s ever met. Other than that, nothing at all.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Forgive me, your Lordship. I should return to my room in the attic and try to sleep.” She turns from him as if embarrassed. When Cullen glances down from her enchanting eyes he realizes that she is dressed for bed. No wonder.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Before she leaves him to brood out the window, she bends down to retrieve his cane and presses it in his fingers. He lets the bare edge of his pinkie skirt against hers, Gwen’s cheeks pinking while she gazes down.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Good evening, my Lord,” she says, skirting away with a sliver of candlelight to follow her.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen watches her instead of the haphazard lightning outside, her light steady and firm even if it is dim. All it needs is a little fuel and care to grow brighter. “To you as well, my lady,” he whispers to himself.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Rain</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">A crackle of lightning reveals his refuge in this deluge. Amongst the pitch-black clouds and rain pounding against his body, Cullen spots a rickety old barn. The same one where he gave Caroline his first-ever kiss all those years ago. Scrabbling in the mud, his boots sinking to his ankles, he moves to pull on the door.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Cullen...” her voice echoes all around him.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He whips his head around, calling, “Caroline,” in fear she’s trapped outside in this storm same as him.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Cullen...” The voice sings from inside the barn. Smart. She always was the smartest of their group.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Tugging on the handle, Cullen hefts the wheeled door open and steps out of the storm and mud into a world of hay. It clings to his filthy boots, his eyes skipping about the looming shadows above. By the darkened skies and sudden shafts of lightning, the beams take on a sinister air. Instead of the creaking estate barn, it feels of the gallows, where many a deserter hanged by his neck until he was dead. Another thunderstrike highlights a rope dangling off a beam, the end coiled up as if it’s a noose waiting for its next victim.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Caroline?” He places a hand to his mouth calling for her, a shudder wracking his body.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“In here,” she calls, sounding no worse from the wear. She seems almost delighted by the unexpected turn of weather which forced the pair into the barn together.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen turns around a stall and stumbles into a nest of crates. Piles and piles of wooden boxes rise up towards the dark ceiling in a confounding maze. It feels less like a barn and more the belly of a...of a ship.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The moment the memory strikes him, he catches movement. A finger strikes a match, the tiny flame placed to a candle. Cullen holds his breath when a spring green dress rises from the darkness.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Gwen?” he whispers, confounded by the woman left shivering in the barn alone. Her deep green eyes widen, the candle perched before her flickering in the winds.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">As he steps closer, the light aiding his path, Cullen glances at the dress. Rains suckered it to her body, brown sections of skin rising from below the satiny depths as the poor woman shivers.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“God, you must be freezing,” Cullen begins, tugging off his coat and wrapping it around her shoulders. He fingers the lapel, the piping belonging to a naval man’s uniform, not a Duke.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Her sweet face tips up to his, a smile blooming across her lips and into his heart. Raindrops glisten across her cheeks, Cullen transfixed by the light dancing over her glowing skin. “Thank you,” she whispers.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Without pause, Cullen sweeps his hands around her jaw, tips her head back, and plunges for a kiss. Heat fills his belly, her succulent lips pursing and folding to his. She raises her arms, his jacket scattering to the wooden planks as Gwen wraps her hands around his back.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Their tongues taste of the other, this verdant woman baring notes of summer clover and apples baked in the sun. How tenderly she presses her lips to his sends Cullen’s heart soaring. His thumbs glide over her cheeks, removing every trace of rain from her skin as he dives deeper and deeper into her mouth.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Her scintillating body presses to his, Cullen’s shirt sopping from her wet breasts gliding across him. He aches to rip his clothing off, to touch her, taste her, know her in the nude. But duty lingers in his mind, even with his lips on hers, even with his hips bounding into hers in a wild hunger.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">It is Gwen who draws off his belt, who unbuttons the fly of his trousers. Cullen’s hands yank at the hem of her dress, lifting it higher and higher as she leaps back onto a crate. Bent over her, her skirts resting in her naked lap, Cullen sweeps his body between her thighs. They cup around him, cling to him, need him, want him.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">As he approaches the crate, a folded knuckle pressing into the wood, his forehead grazes Gwen’s. The heat of a woman cries its siren song for his manhood, not even a thrust away. But he gasps down at her, a shiver of the grave crawling up his spine. Her tender fingers draw up her cheeks, tugging on the scruff of a wild man of the sea. As both palms cup against his face, she whispers, “Take me.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Good morning, Sir.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Sweet Lord!</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen bolts upright, his head screaming in confusion as the dark, lusty barn gives way to a chipper dawn. Wincing, he glares at his steward already preparing the basin for his daily shave. Because he is the Duke of Honnleath now.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">And that...that was all a dream. A dream that boiled his blood with a want he thought expunged ages back. Was it all Caroline’s doing? Did her temptation revive it? If so then why did he wish to...to...?</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“James?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, Sir.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen tries to clamp down on the rock hard erection springing between his thighs. “May I have a few minutes alone?” To try and corral my shame back into its stall.</span>
</p><p class="p7"> </p><hr/><p class="p6"> </p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">The countryside rattles by, Cullen with cane in hand glaring out the west window. It was a frosty breakfast for the duke doing his best to not glance at the woman who pressed her advances upon him awake, or the woman he pressed upon in his dreams. Whether Gwen is aware of his sudden bitter turn is difficult to surmise. She seems in good sorts despite the weather, cross-stitch laying across her lap as she embroiders a clipper crossing the ocean waves.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He should have known it was a dream from the start. A cocktail of heady emotions and past memories bubbling to a peak from the storm outside. For starters, his leg didn’t bother him once while sweeping a woman off her feet and attempting to...</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">That is not a thought to be trailing to fruition.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Look, a cow!” the reason for this trip pipes up from the east window, his nose pressed to the door as he stares across the verdant fields.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Did you enjoy yourself, Branson?” Cullen asks.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Eyes the same color as his brother’s turn back to him, the boy’s exuberant face fading at the dour uncle speaking to him. “Yes, Sir.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">It was how Cullen spoke to his father, how the servants treated him. He despised it. Leaning forward, Cullen roughed a hand over the boy’s hair, causing Branson to laugh. He hears a shared quiet chuckle from the governess, her cheeks ripening as if she’s pleased. The dream’s tendrils refuse to leave his body, her scent and taste suckered to his soul.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen leans back, focusing on the window to avoid her.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Can we come back?” Branson pipes up, wide eyes staring from the duke to his teacher.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I will...” Cullen gulps, trying to steady the rush of blood through his desiccating veins, “We’ll have to see.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Leaking Ship</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“Good afternoon,” Gwen calls to the gardener. He swipes back his hat, eyes narrowing in the harsh sunlight. “I was wondering if you had a wide bucket I could borrow?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Going to wash up?” the man asks, his eyes drifting down her body. The wind is soft, perspiration building in the high heat, but at least she needn’t worry about her dress clinging to her form without a care for decency.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“It’s for Lord Branson,” Gwen explains while bobbing on her toes, watching as the gardener pulls a wooden barrel from the shed. It’s over three feet wide and two deep, causing the Governess to struggle to hold it in her smaller arms. “He’s been folding paper ships all day and I want to teach him how to make them watertight.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“How’s that?” the gardener asks, the man more than happy to chew the fat in the shade.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A smile warms Gwen’s lips as she thinks back to her younger days. “Dip the bottom in wax and it seals up as good as any Clipper.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Huh,” the gardener says, a shovel clanking in his hands as he turns to his tools. “We never did that. Would drip hot wax on my brother’s stomachs while someone held him down, but...”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen’s pleasant eye wanders across the verdant lawn of the estate. A man dressed in a tattered tunic and trousers stands beside one of the other buildings on the grounds. He leans upon a stack of crates, most of his face hidden in the shadows. But as she hears that hell-deep gravely laugh, a face with stringy black hair, pocked cheeks, and red-rimmed beady eyes snaps into her memory.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The gardener’s nostalgia over torturing his brother fades as Gwen stomps across the lawn. Her hands drop the bucket, her heart catching in her throat as the man nods to one of the many hands working the estates. It is him.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Samson.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">His smirk reveals teeth yellowed from cheap tobacco, the stench of fish and decay wafting over her. “Well, ain’t this a thing and a half to find.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She whips her head around, making note of the many servants drifting around the grounds. Most are hiding from the sun, but it is best to keep careful. Knotting a fist around Samson’s tunic, Gwen hauls the taller man into a stand of bushes, vanishing them from any peeping eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“What are you doing here?” she snarls, her grip tightening even as he raises his hands in adjudication.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Funny, was about to ask you the same, Lil Pup.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Her eyes flare, Gwen’s sweet demeanor crackling to reveal bared teeth, “That is my name no longer.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Heard that bit, least some of it. What was you going by now?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Never you mind.” She opens her clenched fist, letting Samson the bandy-legged man of ill-means stumble back. He never falls for long, the man with more lives than a cat.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Samson rubs the mottled whiskers on his cheek, saltier than she remembers, his reddened eyes trying to pierce through her. “So you got yourself a cushy job in a Duke’s lap--”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The dagger is at Samson’s throat before he can blink, Gwen’s fist knotting up the balding hair to trap him. He coughs once and mutters, “Forgot about your little sting.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Why are you here?” Gwen repeats, her voice steelier than her blade.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Slowly, the eternal-drunkards eyes roll up to hers and he cracks a smile. “Same as you, got a job to do.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Bullshit. Samson dealt in only crooked work, not even close to skirting past the law. No chance of a man of the duke’s caliber would suffer someone such as that in his employ. But, what did she really know of him? So he has kind eyes, a shy smile, and cares for his nephew? What in that speaks of a man who will not take the easiest coin on the table?</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Shaking her thoughts off, Gwen glares into Samson’s eyes. “You will not speak of me to anyone here.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“What? Not even--”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She draws the blade closer, Samson gasping at the prick. “Fine, fine, my lips are sealed before you cut ‘em off and wear ‘em as a necklace.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">It isn’t a guarantee by any means, drink or coin certain to loosen those lips, but it’s all she can hope for. Gwen releases her hold, her dagger slipping to the sheath hidden in her boot.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Samson massages his neck, mostly for show as she barely nicked him. His skin shows more damage from a drunkard’s hands attempting a shave. “I hate your family’s greetings. Not a hug or a drink for an old friend, just straight to daggers and blood every time.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Narrowing her eyes, Gwen snarls, “That is not my life. Not anymore.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">After peering out of the shrubbery, Samson takes a single step towards freedom. When Gwen doesn’t lash out, he risks another. There are no parting words, no goodbyes. They don’t deal in those. Before he exists back to his dark deeds, Samson asks, “Oh, want me to tell your brother you said hello?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen answers with a sneer and a draw of her blade.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Old Friends</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">The lonely duke stands inside his gloomy study, gazing across the world out the window. While inside is naught but dour tones and long shadows, beyond his forced asylum are verdant colors lit from above by the golden halo of summer.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He cannot hear the laugh, but he sees it in her cheeks blooming red from the splash of water. In how her body trembles, arms slapping at the bucket to spray back at the boy who’s quickly sinking his fleet in play. In an instant, both are drenched, water erupting from the emptying bucket.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Her laugh doesn’t pause for a moment, the smile contagious as Gwen tucks her fallen hair behind her ear. Cullen places a hand to the glass, his palm warming from the joy beyond his reach.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Milord?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Guilt burns up his stomach, Cullen adjusting the hem of his vest despite knowing he did nothing untoward. Still, it is a snappish tone that commands of James, “What is it?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“You have a visitor.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Very well.” Cullen waves a hand in acknowledgment. No doubt one of the bankers or other sorts forever hounding his steps. God save him if it’s a politician yet again insisting upon the holding’s assistance for an election.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The Steward waves in a man, Cullen turning to watch. He wears a cleaned but ragged topcoat, the brocade of the vest fading from the sun, and a top hat is clutched in the hands calloused from years of working the rope.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A smile burns across Cullen’s face as he meets those striking green eyes many ladies droned on about. “Lieutenant Barris!” he cries, crossing in three steps to the man -- his game leg be damned.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Sir.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Even with the hat in the way, Delrin sweeps his arms around his old Commander in a warm hug. Cullen can smell the sea upon his jacket and a pang strikes his heart for the waves he left behind. After giving another welcoming pat to Delrin’s shoulder, Cullen says, “Now, none of that. I gave up my commission. Why didn’t James take that?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">
    
  </span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He scoops up the wayward top hat and wanders back towards his desk. After perching it upon a bust of Amphitrite, he leans on the always bustling desktop to focus his full attention upon his guest. “It’s so wonderful to see you again. I’d hardly have expected you to brave the English countryside.” Cullen’s musings at the familiar friend turn dour and he glances at the man, “Do not tell me you’ve been put in dry-dock as well.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“No, no.” Barris lights up, crossing closer. Cullen waves towards the divan beside the window and his friend perches on the edge. “This is merely shore leave. We’ll be setting out for Norway soon.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Open ocean waters, naught but gulls and men to judge him. The smell of salt, crisp winds through the fjords, and pickled fish of every manner. Cullen’s rosy memory turned sour a moment and he nodded to himself. No doubt Lt Barris picked the least appealing option for the forced into retirement Captain.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“How are you keeping? The ship’s...?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“In good condition. We had to re-tar her after some run in with smugglers, Sir,” Barris says without thought, then grimaces. “Or should I call you my Lord?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I’d prefer Cullen if it’s all the same,” he shudders at the massive line of titles stretching across his soul. Even he cannot remember them all in one go.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“That will,” Delrin coughs, a hand rubbing into the back of his neck, “take some time. Captain?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Also acceptable,” Cullen gives him. “What brings you to my door?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The proud smile falters, Delrin twisting his fingers in his hands. Most days Cullen doesn’t miss the calluses ground into his pads and palms from pulling the sails day in and say out. Most days.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Barris lifts his head and his eyes are awash in tears, “I am in love.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A strange thing to announce to his old Captain but exciting nonetheless.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“But I cannot afford her dowry.” His neck gives out, the courageous sailor crumping at his flailing finances.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen draws his cane from the canister by the desk, walking himself closer to the man clawing at his knees. Perched upon the armrest, he asks, “What is she like?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“She is...” Barris’ eyes burn like the northern lights, his smile widening with every word, “Enchanting. More beautiful than a rose. Sweet as sugarcane. Her voice is that of an angel. And when Belle walks into a room I want to fall at her feet and beg her to be mine.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Oh, that man is smitten by cupid’s arrow no doubt. He’s practically singing to himself about this woman as if she’s his Madonna and saint in a diaphanous gown. Cullen pinches his lips in thought. “Belle? A mademoiselle?” At Barris’ pursed lips, Cullen chuckles, “I’m certain that a dashing English sailor come to sweep her off her feet does not make her father happy.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“No, Sir. Captain, he is...he says he will bless the marriage, provided I can prove I will keep her in the life she deserves. I want nothing more than to make her happy all her days.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen cannot stop the laugh to himself as he rises to sit at his desk. Tugging on the top drawer, he pulls out the chequebook while asking, “And how much does it take to persuade this Marquis’ heart?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“A hundred pounds would more than suffice,” Barris explains while sitting up rod straight. “I have a nest egg of my own to dip into...”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">If he came to his captain for help, Barris must be in dire straights indeed. He was never one on deck gambling his minor stipend, rarely into drink, and believed in the cause. Cullen opens the long slips, his pen dipping into the ink, when he pauses. The order of the bills seems off. He hasn’t written any in a few days, but he could swear this should be number 80.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Ah, perhaps his old age is creeping in. Cullen shakes off the momentary confusion and fills out a promissory note to Lieutenant Delrin Barris. After drying the ink and cutting it free from the stack, he rises to the man yet mooning over his lady love. It is a wonder hearts don’t swirl around his head.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Here you are,” he presents the money, “but I do not want to hear word one about repayment. Understood?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Captain, it...” Barris begins, before he eyes up the amount to find that his Lordship added another zero at the end. “A thousand pounds! I cannot accept,” Delrin tries to force the paper back at him, but Cullen won’t hear of it.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“It is my wedding present to you and the soon to be Mrs. Barris,” he insists, his smile straining his cheeks. He hadn’t stretched them so in weeks.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“My lord,” Delrin winces, relief and joy sweeping across his face, “Cullen.” He cups the man’s hand in his, shaking it vigorously, “Thank you. Thank you, a thousand times. I do not know what I would have done without...”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Think nothing of it. It’s nice to see young love still in the world.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Barris is careful to store the note in his purse, his eyes reading across it as he no doubt envisions his coming wedding night. A dark string pulls through Cullen’s gut and he glances to the stack of letters from Countess Caroline inquiring when he and Branson will be returning.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“What of you, Captain?” Barris asks, distracting Cullen from his glare at the desk.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t think I require a small loan from you, Lieutenant,” Cullen cracks.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Barris brushes a hand across his lengthening locks and laughs. “No, marriage. A wife. A better half to make you whole. Are you not interested in the institution?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Breath catches in Cullen’s throat, his eyes drifting not to the letters of a reminder of what he could have had, but to the window. She’s rising to pick the nearly emptied barrel from the lawn, her hair plucked mercilessly from its plait, and a warm hand curled around a smiling Branson. Water soaks to her dress, but the beautiful woman is naught but smiles and his mind jolts back to the dream Gwen in a barn. It hasn’t repeated through the night yet, but Cullen would be lying to himself if he says he didn’t wish it to.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I have enough to keep me busy already.” He shakes off the thought to Barris, unable to voice his cavalcade of emotions.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“That’s what a lady of the house is best for, balancing your problems.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I suspect my suggesting the idea of marriage would only increase them tenfold,” Cullen admits, even as his wounded and weary heart toys with the idea. It holds fast to the dream of him and Gwen alone on a small ship of their own with no one but the waves and gulls to watch.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Now,” Cullen slides down beside his friend on the divan, “unless you are required at your lady’s side this very moment, why don’t you tell me how the rest of the crew fairs?”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Prince</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Cullen chewed upon Delrin’s words as the man dashed away for his own wedding. It is a foolish thought. Marriage. He need not bother, Branson already slotted to take up the title after him. The only reason would be for his own selfish needs.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Wants.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“James?” he calls, straightening up from gazing out the window. There is no woman in green darting through the hedges with his nephew in tow, but his heart smiles at the wisteria dangling near. Is it the flowers he smells or her perfume?</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, Sir?” James ducks his head in, slowly closing the door behind while pacing into Cullen’s study.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“How does one go about...proposing marriage?” Cullen asks. When he receives no instant answer, he turns from the window to find a flabbergasted Steward.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Mi-milord?” James stutters as if this is some failing travesty upon the Rutherford line. His fate was decided for him when he was still chasing frogs in the garden. He had no say in starting the wheels, much less any idea how to begin such a proposition.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“For,” Cullen’s internal organs burn hot, the shame of what he was asking finally taking hold. “For a purely speculative question.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Ah, well, most would first approach the young lady’s families to learn of her prospects. Charming the father is key.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen frowns. He’d never inquired once about her father, or any other man in her life. What if she is already affianced? Hard to believe a man would let a woman such as her from his side for a week never mind long enough to become a...</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“However,” James continues, “if this is a more localized question, given your blood ties to the noble house you would first need to--”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Do not say it,” Cullen groans in the midst of James dooming him.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“--to petition the crown for rights to marry.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Wonderful. His hand plasters to the glass pane, eyes screwed tight to try and avoid such a possibility. “What of what you said before? Asking her father and the like?” Cullen clings to any chance to slip past where this line of questioning is leading him.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I would suggest, if his Lordship is of the mind to proceed, to first speak with him even before the young lady. There is a chance,” for a brief moment James's eyes flicker out to the garden and Cullen’s sly questioning falls apart at the knowing look in his help’s eye. “They may not allow such a pairing.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen purses his lips in a grimace masquerading as a smile. Doomed before even beginning -- the tale of his life. “I see.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Shall I establish a meeting with his Lordship?” the Steward asks.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He could claim this is all a mental exercise. A curiosity to pique Cullen’s interest on these hot summer days. Walk back from the foolish idea that he could ever bother to marry.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Please do.”</span>
</p><p class="p7"> </p><hr/><p class="p7"> </p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The mad King is laid up in his death bed, his first son ruling in his stead. That puts both far beyond the reach of even a Duke. So it is to not the Prince Regent but the second son Cullen must appeal.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">While the eldest son is known for being brash of action, slow to accept advice, and possessing a flight of fancy that keeps the House of Lords flustered like a hen house, the youngest is another matter entirely.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Move a bit closer. Closer.” Prince Alistair stands beside a line of perfectly fine targets, bow in hand. He waves at the man with a top hat perched on his head, and an apple adorning said hat. Lifting the bow into position, he aims a non-barbed arrow. In an instant, the pedigreed man begins to tremble.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Stop squirming already. It’ll be fine. See.” He taps the tip, trying to emphasize its lack of a head. Much like the man could be should his Lordship miss.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“One.” He extends the bow out, drawing the string back. “Two.” Before he can reach three, the poor living target cringing inward, the arrow flies through the air. To everyone’s relief, it pierces dead center through the apple. The fruit tumbles back off the hat and the man forced to entertain the prince falls to his knees, grateful to live another day.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Told you I could hit it. You owe me ten quid,” he jerks his head to another man, Earl of somewhere. Casting a look over at the gentleman who’d provided the stand, the Prince sighs, “Don’t carry on so, Rendon. You seemed to think it so easy even a servant could do it.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Prince Alistair roughs his fingers through the mass of red-blonde hair duskier by the summer suns. He begins first over the high swept head hair, then combs apart the mass of unsightly fur prodding off his sideburns and sweeping down the cheeks. The man is clearly proud of the slab of hair that leaves him appearing like a right pillock in every manner of painting and high society function.</span>
</p><p class="p17">
  <span class="s1"></span>
  
  <br/>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“What did we have next in my duties?” He turns to his butler, a bald man who no doubt began his tour with a full head of thick hair. “Ooh,” he perks up, his head twisting to follow a trail of hounds preparing for a hunt. “Who’s a cute puppy?” The prince reaches out to pet the first dog, but his butler shakes him off.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Sir, they must be focused for their hunt. You will only distract him.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“If I had a penny every time someone accused me of distracting them,” the Prince muses to himself, “I could finally put in that proper cheese cellar.” After elbowing the weary butler five times, he turns to the man who approached with literal hat in hand.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“My Lord,” Cullen bows, well remembering the etiquette forced upon him as a child. The one he thought he ran from.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“If it isn’t...isn’t...”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“His Lordship, Duke of Honnleath,” the butler whispers in his ear.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I know!” Alistair waves his hand at the man and without a by-your-leave snatches at Cullen’s arm, pulling the pair away from the gawking public. “Been a few years since last we saw each other.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">It was only for a few weeks, when the King or perhaps the Prince Regent worrying his brother might be trouble attempted to get the man into the navy. They barely pulled out of port before the Prince turned sea-green and never returned to normal. Cullen was the one to order him off the boats immediately. They didn’t need a landlubber clinging to the gunwale with a tender stomach in the heat of battle.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Heard about your father, I’m...I’m sorry,” the Prince whispers, causing Cullen to stare in surprise.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“My brother as well,” Cullen tacks on, every interaction he has with people forever clouded in loss going on 18 months old.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Right,” Alistair winces, “Hence the whole,” he waves a hand down Cullen’s body as if the man is wearing a Duke Uniform. “How are the Honnleath estates? Drafty was how I remembered them.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“They are fine, Milord.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“With tiny battlements on that old tower near the swamp and...oh those pies! The ones with the gravy that, I am no good at names, but you must know of who I speak.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Sir,” Cullen groans, well aware that his Lordships flights of fancy can impede any conversation. “I would like to petition the crown with a request.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Of course,” the Prince smiles wide, “anything for the child of our great-grandmother. Or is it the grandson of our second great-aunt? Whichever.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">In truth, Cullen memorized even less of the peerage than the Prince, but he still bristles at the haphazard thought. “I require the King’s blessing for marriage.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Oh ho!” In an instant, the lackadaisical but professional Prince turns into a braying tavern oaf. He elbows Cullen in the side, laughing, “Gotten yourself a lovely bit of ankle out there already? And she’s demanding you make it all official so she can call herself a Dutchess on her hankies?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen closes his eyes so his lordship cannot see the roll of them. “As you say.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Well,” Alistair pats a finger to his lips in thought, “what are you plans about the lineage and that nephew of your brothers?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Branson will retain heritage rights to the title. It is...the least I can do for my brother and sister-in-law.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“First, make sure your lady friend knows that because woo-boy, if they get all surprised that their little ankle-biters are out of the will it’s poison this, burying the bodies in the bog that. Huge mess.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The sneer is all Cullen can muster. There might be other women who would try to harm Branson to put their own children in the line, but it is clear how much Gwen adores him. She would never.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The Prince watches Cullen, clearly hoping for a more dramatic reaction. When he receives none, he continues, “Then, I see no problem with letting you marry whoever. Titles might get all mashed up, hope she’s not really set on being a Duchess after all. But...”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He, he has given permission? Without pause? The entire carriage ride to the Prince’s summer house Cullen anticipated a hard rejection. That the crown would find problems with his interest in a Governess, or that someone higher up the chain already had plans for the bachelor Duke left to them. For the first time in his life, Cullen is free to choose the woman to stand at his side without having to escape to the sea to do so.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you,” he grips the Prince’s warm hand, shaking it thricely while giving his gratitude once more. The man shrugs, his mind already on other matters as he calls for his sword and anyone daring to take him on.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen walks away, knowing better than to test the limits of royalty’s patience. So he can marry Gwen if he so wishes. There is nothing stopping him from proposing to her in the gardens. God, how does one even begin such a task? What if she says no? What if she is already destined for another? What if she does not want him?</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” the Prince calls, his hands wrapped around an old claymore that he swings without pause, “but she has to have at least some blue blood in her. Don’t want you marrying a washerwoman or anything like that lest Orlais think us uncivilized.” He turns from Cullen to the servant in padding, “Come on and hit me!”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Nobility. She must be of noble birth or else. The color drains from Cullen’s cheeks as he stalks back to his carriage. James leans down from the driver’s seat, instructed to always let Cullen open his own doors. “How did it go, Sir?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I have no idea,” he admits while climbing inside.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Question</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“...and if I take 1/4th from a half, what is left?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen sits upon her knees before the tiny desk watching Branson struggle to piece together the problem. He scowls at the answer just within reach, his usually jubilant face taking an instant turn into his grace’s. It is rather hilarious to find on a seven-year-old. The sneer on the thirty-year-old, however, causes her knees to tremble and heart to flip.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The door to their private tutoring room opens, Gwen barely glancing from the boy attempting to double the fraction before subtracting. She presumes it to be the chef with the boy’s afternoon snack, her voice rising in an attempt to ask it to be placed on the table, when she spots the same familial sneer.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Your...” she launches to her feet, “your lordship.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The duke tips his head once to her, his eyes sweeping over the boy chewing on the end of the pen that looks as if a rat’s gone at it. “How is your day Branson?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Fractions are bollocks!” the exhausted boy spits, bringing a flush of shame to the governess who should be keeping him in check.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“We,” she dances in a square, her feet scrambling for footing, “we’ve been working on mathematics. But I’m afraid he’s not a fan.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The duke snickers. “As is true of all Rutherfords. Ah, Miss Trevelyan, I was wondering if I could speak with. In the gardens. If you have a moment.” Where before his commands were cool and crisp, these cut off and floundered in circles like a dog searching for the sunbeam to nap in.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen bobs her head. “I think so. Branson could certainly use the break.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">After giving the boy leave to play, Branson with kite under wing leaps ahead of the adults. Gwen walks beside the duke who’s shuffling slower than usual. Does he not want to have this conversation? Is she in more trouble for the rising curses from his nephew? She’s tried to train them out, but a year of grief and running wild alongside whoever visited the estates left him with a low-brow vocabulary. She didn’t think it hurt anyone, plenty of time for him to learn proper speech as he aged.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">But now...</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Rather than the streams of wisteria or the bushy roses, it’s to the fountain where the duke leads her. A lion with a mane of real gold stands in the center. Water should be spurting from its roaring jaws, but only a dribble manages out on this summer day.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">His lordship comes to a standstill beside the trickling fountain, the cane hooked under his hand. He begins to reach a hand out for the water the way a young boy would, but pauses and shakes off the thought. “It is a...nice day?” he begins, calming at least some of Gwen’s fears. If he were truly angry at her work, he’d open with more vim. <em>What does he want?</em></span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Indeed, though I for one am quite looking forward to fall’s cooler embrace. This summer has been...” Her eyes drift across the man’s stark jaw, his amber eyes shaking from the lion to hers, and those sculpted lips with the tantalizing scar. “…very hot.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The duke smiles at her confession—though she prays he does not catch her double entendre—and wrings a hand over the back of his neck. His eyes, candles across a stormy sea, burn into hers. For a flicker, they drift down, canvassing her lower neckline and the frills curling across her bosom. That cursed summer heat increases ten-fold in her belly, Gwen having to turn away first.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Was the weather what you wished to discuss with me?” she asks, fearing the dreams her carnal side could create after too much time with his grace in the garden.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“No,” he admits, a snort trailing his confession. “I...” He glances at her, and the smile falters. His lordship fiddles so with his cane, it begins to rise up in his hands, the iron cap bouncing into his stomach filled with thoughts he traps inside. The worry in him, the clear anxiety wafting from his pores, causes Gwen to place a comforting hand to his chest.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Do you have any prospects?” he blurts out so suddenly, Gwen stumbles a step, her hand falling from him.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Prospects…?” Was he going to fire her? Did they find a better-suited governor for Branson? Most hated the idea of a woman teaching a future heir after a certain age.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The duke gulps deep, his eyes softening along with his voice, “Are you affianced?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Oh. “No.” She shakes her head, turning away as a blush burns on her cheeks. They assured her that wouldn’t be a problem with this job.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He nods hard at that fact as if it is what he wants to hear. “Your family?” he suddenly pivots and a gulf opens in Gwen’s chest.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He knows. Samson told him. Or one of the others at the various parties. Or her brother. It would be like him to try and dictate her life once again.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Yes?” Gwen speaks in a calm tone while her insides scream.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Are any of them of noble blood?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Noble blood? What is he on about? “My mother’s father is a Lord,” Gwen says slowly, her eyes drifting around the silent gardens. Is Samson out there waiting? Or has the port authority finally come for her?</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">To her confusion, a great smile rises across the duke’s face. He bends his legs as if he feared them locking up prior. “Wonderful. That’s...that should be enough.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Enough what?” Gwen asks slowly, wishing she already mapped out an escape route. She thought herself finally safe.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Miss Trevelyan.” The duke reaches out to grip her fingers in his and she stills. He has to feel her heartbeat through their crossed palms; it’s plundering in her ears. “I would like to court you.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“What?” she gasps, her eyes bulging as she tries to follow this logic. “But you’re...you’re—” A handsome, wealthy, kind-hearted man—perhaps the nicest she’s ever met. Why would someone like that want anything to do with her?</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“The title, yes.” He sighs and she jabs a finger at him as if that was what she meant. A duke and a governess? That’s absurd.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He swallows both her hands in his, pulling her palms to brush against his chest as those amber eyes plead in hers. “The crown has given me permission to court whomever I so choose.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>And you picked me?</em>
  </span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A giggle escapes from Gwen’s lips, disbelief and the rise in her ego competing with her fragile emotions. Her. He wants her? He cannot be serious...</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He’s always serious. Fanning her fingers out across his coat, growing more aware of the strong build below, Gwen says, “The nobility would allow such a thing?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Provided you are of noble blood, yes. No doubt they’d have to check because they love nothing more than cramming their noses where they don’t belong. But I don’t see a problem...”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Check. Meaning delving into her family’s history. Where the money came from. Who she truly is. <em>Run, Gwen. Forget this job. Forget this...this insane man who thinks he can just sweep a silly governess off her feet.</em></span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Forget the soft touches as he guided her on and off his horse. The lingering stares across candlelit rooms while her smile brings one to his. The encouragement for her book and delight in her wit. Forget him.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Do you...?” the duke gulps, his eyes peering deeper into hers, “Do you want to be courted...by me?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1"><em>He’ll learn the truth.</em> <em>You’ll lose.</em> But he’s so handsome. <em>It will destroy everything you’ve fought for. </em>And he touches her head in a way no man ever has. Perhaps none ever will.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The agony of choice thunders through Gwen’s brain while he stands before her with his heart in his hand. She needs time. Time to think. To find a way to explain that as much as she cares for him, it isn’t wise for a man of his stature to elevate someone so low. So worthless.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen tips over, her legs giving way as she fakes a dead faint. Cullen's arms scoop around her, holding her tight and he calls her name, but she keeps her eyes tight. When he runs off for help, she can form a plan.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">To her shock, the man with a wounded leg, lifts and begins to carry her to the house all while calling for assistance. She shouldn’t be putting so much pressure on him, wake back up with an answer to save him the pain, but it is nice to be in his arms at least one more time.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Answer</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">He places her limp body upon the settee, Cullen’s heart in his throat as her hand falls to her breast. Picking the pallid fingers up in his, he tries to rub life back in them.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Sir?” James finally answers the shouts Cullen left ringing from the door to his office. It holds the nearest resting place he could think of.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cupping his hand over hers and peering at her fluttering eyelids, Cullen orders, “Fetch the salts. Or a doctor, anything to...”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Slowly, the lush lashes crack open an inch. A sliver of emerald green beams up at him and a prayer escapes as a gasp from him.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">When she fell in the garden, he feared his proposal caused her to suffer a stroke. Placing the back of his hand to her forehead, Cullen begs, “Are you all right?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen moves to sit up, Cullen curling his palm around her back to help her rise. After glancing around at the surroundings, she pivots her face to his and a flush rises on her cheeks. “Yes,” she whispers, her features turning coy.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Thank the heavens,” Cullen cries loudly, turning his head over his shoulder to shout for James. “We no longer require the salts, though the doctor might...”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“No.” Her slender fingers curl over his cheek and in an instant Cullen is hypnotized. The tiny tips dance through his scruff, brushing the prickly hairs down as she barely pivots his eyes back to her. “I meant, what you asked in the garden. The answer is yes.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Really?” he gulps, the rapid thundering in his chest turning to a surprising joy.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen extends her graceful neck, Cullen’s eyes drawn to the deep hollow at the base. A thrill courses through him to place his lips to it, to taste her décolletage and unwind the green ribbon hugging below her bosom. But, as she draws her finger across her plush lips, the nail scratching a soft pink line through the soft brown, his plans change.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Unaware of the lecher hiding inside the noble, Gwen laughs, “Yes, truly. I would be most...<em>amenable</em> to your courting.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Amenable?” Cullen laughs himself. “Is that one of the vocabulary words you’re teaching Branson?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Her smile lights up his heart and she leans closer, her fingers curling around the back of his jaw. With breath barely passing her lips, she says, “He’s far too young to learn the word for what I’m truly thinking.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen’s breath sputters from his lips, his face swiveling directly into the full glory of her green eyes. He can smell the perfumes cleansed across her body, a hint of jasmine and rose water rising from her neck. Darting his tongue over his lips, he tastes the spark of air between them, his mind filling with the wonders of what a touch of her lips would do to his.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Sir, I have...” James announces.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Twisting away, Cullen staggers to his feet and instantly regrets it as pain shoots up his knee. With the beautiful woman about to...no, she wasn’t. That’s unseemly even for a man courting her. Especially for a man courting her. They require a chaperone, he needs a chaperone.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">By God does he need a chaperone.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">After glaring at the Steward for the unwanted—but necessary—interruption, Cullen arranges his leg to lessen the pain. James is already digging into the desk for his medicine, and a snifter of brandy to properly dull the pain. As the old sea dog stumbles around trying to hide his broken state, the poor woman who fainted dead away rises to her feet.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The tension percolates as Cullen downs his pills and drink while James remains standing behind the desk as a reminder of propriety. Gwen’s bright eyes drift to the man, but remain focused upon Cullen. His hand rises, aching to wrap her small body in his arms, but he restrains himself.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“My Lord,” she begins, and he frowns. Will they have to retain such titles even in the midst of a courtship? Why does he not know these things? “I admit I don’t have much experience by way of courting.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Welcome to the club.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“...but, I please ask that I remain with Master Branson as his governess. After the year he’s had another upheaval without warning could be detrimental.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A duke asks her to potentially become his wife, and her first concern is for his nephew. Warmth wraps around Cullen’s heart even as bitterness drips down his throat for his failure to take into account Branson’s feelings. “I would like nothing more,” he says.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The smile across her sweet lips is worth his fumble, Gwen curtsying deep. Her eyes remain closed until she reaches the lowest dip. For a breath those emeralds dart up through her lashes, pinning the breath in Cullen’s throat. “If you will excuse me, your grace. I should return to the Young Master before he decides all of his maths are worthless.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen snickers at the idea and gifts her a wave. “What about after supper? When Branson is being put to bed?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She turns at the door, her eyebrow raising as if to ask, ‘So soon?’ Is his eagerness a drawback? But the smile curls over her lips and she dips down, “I cannot wait.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen’s heart soars as the door closes, leaving him with the now lingering question of what one does when courting a woman. James coughs once and points to the mound of work he’s been ignoring for a week in his pursuit of a governess with eyes as green as jade and a heart bigger than the ocean.</span>
</p><p class="p7"> </p><hr/><p class="p6"> </p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“I can’t do this. I don’t know what I was thinking. This is...” Cullen tries to flee from his own bathtub, but James places a steadying hand to his panicking shoulders.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“You will be fine, Sir,” he assures while running a line of foam over Cullen’s cheeks. The glint of the razor causes Cullen to clench his toes, but James is careful and quick.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He barely picked at dinner, forced to listen to the vicar and mayor droning on about their menial problems while his ears honed to the woman at the end of the table. She sat beside Branson, insisting he finish all his peas before his pudding. Not once did she look up, her face cool and collected for what is to come. Meanwhile, his Grace was a bumbling mess as he ran to his rooms to freshen up.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Still is a bumbling mess. His chin dips, the razor slicing closer and Cullen holds his breath.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“What makes me think I know how to court a woman? My courting days were spent at sea, romancing sharks and drunken sailors forced to sleep in the lifeboats. No, no,” he shakes his head, pulling back from James’ trust blade. White foam lingers on his lip and his neck, but Cullen dips into the water, washing it away. The hairs can remain where they began same as his heart.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Sir,” James chides as Cullen rises from the tub. He ignores the hand proffered to him and grabs the rope instead. It’s become such second nature, he barely notices until the loud fall of the sandbag as he puts his weight back in his worthless legs.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Rubbing a towel over his scarred body, Cullen shakes his head at the entire idea. Courting at his age. A young lady. How foolish could he be?</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Your Grace, if you please,” the Steward oversteps his boundaries and grips to Cullen’s naked arm. He glares at the touch, but James sighs, “do you not enjoy this woman’s company?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Well, yes.” He wouldn’t have walked down this path if he didn’t.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Do you not find her pleasing to look at?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The blush chars over his naked body, Cullen wrapping the towel over his hips in the event the thought of Gwen should bring expected consequences. He does not answer the question, but his glare increases upon the sudden forward man.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“And she has wholeheartedly agreed to this?” James continues.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I would not be in this position if she didn’t.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“My Lord, I would say it’s rather clear that Miss Trevelyan cares for you.” The Steward who’s asking for a boot points to the rope and tackle system she made for him.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">With a wry smile, Cullen tugs on the rope, hefting the ingenious sandbag higher and he thinks of her kind fingers nailing every bit of it up. “What do I say to her?” he gulps to James.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The Steward smiles, already extracting the navy frock coat and silver vest from the wardrobe. “Be yourself, your Grace. And if that fails, speak of the weather.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1"><em>God</em>, Cullen prayed while slipping on his trousers, <em>give me the strength to see this to the end.</em></span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Gardens</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">He finds her in the gardens, her legs demurred to the side as she sits upon the stone bench beside a low line of shrubbery. The sides of her bonnet hide away her warm cheeks as she thumbs through a book, but he’s taken in by her nose and the profile of a smile curling up her glistening lips.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He can’t do this.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Before Cullen can take a step to flee for the sea, Gwen glances up from her book and the smile deepens. Cullen sweeps the top hat off his head at the lady’s presence. His long curly hair knotted back by a single ribbon of navy blue, trembles in the breeze. There’s a chill creeping off the ocean that Cullen cursed for three weeks. Now, it blows the scent of jasmine and the brush of her curled ebony hair towards him.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen wraps a hand to her head, holding the bonnet in place as she smiles, “Good evening.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“To you as well, my Lady,” he smiles at the beautiful woman waiting for him. Slowly, her eyes dart to the other addition to their meeting whom James found for him. “Mrs. Wynne,” Cullen bobs his head to the widow with a pile of needlecraft in her lap. She faces away from the pair on the other side of the shrubbery, but her hard eyes drift over the stumbling man clinging to his cane for life.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Aren’t you rather old to require a chaperone?” she sniffs, clearly unimpressed with his need to stick to the rules.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I assure you, I have no intentions to...” Cullen begins, but Mrs. Wynne waves him off.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Do as you like. As long as I have daylight, I don’t mind.” And with that, she resumes her embroidery, her yellowed teeth chewing a piece of thread in half.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen walks towards the lovely woman seated before him and asks, “May I?” The smile and nod warm his heart and he eases onto the bench beside her. If he were in his study or in a parlor surrounded by men, Cullen would lean back, stretch his leg out for comfort, and groan. But he’s on edge, his back straighter than a mast as he fumbles with his hat.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“My lady...” he begins, the small talk fading as she swivels to him.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A single eyebrow perks up, Gwen asking, “My lord?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Your family,” he gasps out, clinging to the first in five topics James insisted he broach. It is clear in an instant that he choose poorly, as Gwen shifts away to stare at the garden.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“What of them?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Do you...” Cullen shifts on his seat, wishing he hadn’t worn the pinching cravat for this. “Do you write to them often?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“No,” her bonnet shakes in a hard negative and a sigh raises her shoulders. “My mother died when I was a child, and my father passed a few years back.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Oh. And he pulled that from her on their first meeting. Stupid! “I’m so sorry for...” For bumbling into a traumatic topic without recourse. In castigating himself, Cullen’s tongue runs away with him. “So that must be why you’re a governess instead.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Her green eyes narrow, her head swiveling fast to his, “Instead of what?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Married,” he tries to wave a hand around to emphasize this entire charade. A single snort comes from their silent chaperone, but her head’s bent down into the needlework as if she’s paying no heed to his crashing.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen stretches her neck, her body twisting further from his. “My father never would have allowed such a thing. He’d have lost too great an asset.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">For her kindness? Her wit? Possibly her cooking skills, not that a future Duchess would be required to know as such. And there you go putting the cart five leagues before the horse.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Silence falls between them, the awkward kind that feels of sandpaper rubbed over your body. Gwen stares straight ahead while Cullen routinely fumbles with his hat. How did this go so wrong so quickly? It was a calm breeze to speak to her when she was the governess, when propriety and expectations didn’t weigh upon his tongue like a lead weight.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“The weather is...nice,” Cullen gulps, unable to find any topic to cling to.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He fears she’ll rise, ask to retire after this disaster then avoid him entirely. But Gwen chuckles, her shoulders shaking before she turns her bright green eyes upon him. “You are truly out of your depth.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">It is not a question, but Cullen responds with a groaning, “Yes.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“You need not be so formal. I dare say there are few things more personal in this world than courting.” Her hand, that’d been clinging to the book as if it was her life preserver, cupped his knee. It was barely a brush, but Cullen’s cheeks lit up at the contact.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“There are protocols, in place. As much for your benefit as mine. I do not wish to bereave you of what you deserve.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The smile increases to the power of summer’s dawn. “My reputation can survive a man forgetting his titles and being himself for an eve.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He is being an idiot. Cullen pulls in a breath, trying to steady the fluttering in his chest as he plucks hard at the cravat. Next time, he skips that.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Next time?</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen frowns softly, her eyes drifting to the knee she’s cupping. She doesn’t pull her hand away in surprise, but asks, “How is it feeling?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“There’s always pain,” he admits, “though the twinge down my calf tells me another storm is brewing.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“My...performance earlier couldn’t have helped it. I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She sounds truly heart-broken that he was forced to hold her in his arms. If he hadn’t been fretting about her turning ill, Cullen would have enjoyed it. Scooting closer, his cheek brushing against the frills of her bonnet, he says, “I would gladly carry you wherever you wish to be, bum knee be damned.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I will,” her beguiling eyes drift down his chest, “remember that. You’re incredibly dashing in that outfit.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">It was all James’ idea, pulling nearly the same from the ball, save a change in pin. This one is emerald, as green as her eyes. “Your dress is...” Cullen lets his eyes drift from her cheeks down the peek of a bosom above the silk clinging desperately to her skin. “Enchanting,” he finishes.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Really?” Gwen glances down and snickers, “It’s the same I had on before. I only own two.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Perhaps it is less the silk and ribbons and more the woman inside that brings out its beauty,” his voice is husky, needy, his body scooting ever closer to her. Their legs touch, her fingers playing with the emerald pin as a smile flirts over her lips.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Now I am curious how handsome you would appear both in your regalia and...” Gwen leans closer, her hot breath drifting through his ear as she breathes, “out.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">God, she is a treasure beyond counting. He curls his thumb under her chin, his fingers finding comfort along her jaw. Cullen is about to tip her lips to his, when a cough breaks out from behind them.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The Chaperone.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen rolls her eyes but demures back while the duke who should know better, tries to think of a blotted sailor left bleached on the deck to cool his blood. The awkwardness returns but this isn’t caused by his foolish tongue. No, it’s two people casting hungry glances at the other, then turning away before being caught. He should be asking her more, getting to know her.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">But then he does know her. She is a writer, she cares for children, she hides from politics as much as he. She fits perfectly behind him on a horse, and she can create ingenious inventions to save him from embarrassment.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A movement catches Cullen’s eye and he watches Gwen tug her bonnet off. She fluffs at her hair, four giant curls circled by the rest. Suddenly, she calls, “Oh no, the wind!” as her bonnet goes skittering into the bushes.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen frowns, certain she threw it, as Gwen leaps to her feet to chase after deeper into the shadows area. He pats his hands to his knees, uncertain what to do, when Gwen calls out, “Your Grace? Could you perhaps help me retrieve my hat? It’s beyond my reach.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Of course,” he responds, placing his own on the bench. With cane in hand, he limps after her. The setting sun’s rays vanish to cool shadows as he passes under the trees and stretching bushes.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen is about to call for Gwen, when he spies her standing in a small alcove behind the bushes -- her bonnet in her hands. “But I...?” he stutters, pointing at the supposed wayward thing.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Her smile turns devious as she steps closer, her body leaning towards him as she stares upward. Cullen’s tongue stills, the accusation fading to nothing at the perfect emeralds beaming up at him. As his palm cups her cheek, he understands her ruse, Gwen’s eyelids fluttering shut.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen pulls in a deep breath as if he’s about to leap underwater, and bends down. Her lips' heat washes over him, swaddling him as he tastes the tender kiss of this beguiling woman. It is far better than his dream, his hands knowing what she feels like as her body relaxes into his. His lips knowing that she pulses the center of her lips in a kiss. His tongue learning that she tastes of elderberries and nutmeg.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The hunger rising in his belly orders him to dive deeper into her, his tongue flitting over her lips. But that’s unseemly. It isn’t right...</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen’s arms curl around him, her breasts crushing to his chest as she parts her lips and her tongue playfully touches the tip of his. Swooping his arm around her back, Cullen hoists her higher into the air, his tongue and hers twirling to match the heat rising in his blood. And, as she presses to his body, his loins stir, aching for that dream to finally come to fruition.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Ahem!” the old lady’s voice coughs from the bench. “Have you finished finding your bonnet?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She slithers from his grip, Gwen’s eyes rolling up to his and a shrug in her shoulders. “Yes, Mrs. Wynne,” Gwen calls.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Then don’t you think you should leave the bushes before you get pricked?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A char burns up Cullen’s cheeks at the admonishment, his head shaking at a thirty-year-old man hiding in the bushes to kiss a girl. Gwen begins to exit, skirts in hand, when he grabs her arm. Before she can slip past him, he bends her back, her body cradled in his arms, as he takes one last perfect kiss from her lips.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Her cheeks burn bright at that, her eyes flaring deep into his for his impetuous move. But the smile on her lips tells him all he needs to know. After Cullen lifts her back to her feet, his expression neutral as if he didn’t just do that, he whispers, “Thank you for losing your bonnet.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Promise</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">For nearly two weeks, after ensuring Master Branson was on his way to bed, Gwen would walk the gardens with his Grace. They’d discuss minute topics of the day, from the preferred shade of pansies to the refreshing scent of lemon. And, when the dowager woman wasn’t looking, she’d take a kiss or two from him. At least he seems to have loosened from that first, incredibly awkward meeting.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">On the nights when the duke was busy with more pressing meetings, she would sneak into his office to write. Every time, there’d be a rose red as a maiden’s blush perched upon his closed books for her. She hadn’t the heart to tell him the forward message he was no doubt unaware he left her. Though, she likes to dream that he is fully aware—particularly when the coral rose slipped into place of the others.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">As their courtship slips into its fifteenth eve, the pair find their little anniversary delayed courtesy of the tempestuous storms of the year. Rain pounds so harshly against the tight windows a draft and spray of water sneak through the edge. Gwen shivers, her book trembling as she tries to huddle deeper into her body’s warmth. It was foolish to leave off her petticoats this morning…as if she hadn’t been doing such a risqué move in the past two weeks.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The movements, or perhaps the sound, catch the eye of the man hunkered over his ledgers. “Are you chilled?” he asks, already rising from the desk.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen frowns at her disturbing him. It was she who snuck in while he was working, hoping to make use of the faint green light leeching across the garden. “I am well,” she tries to assure the duke walking towards her. “The windows are a bit drafty.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A sneer curls up his lips and he glares at the panes as if about to challenge them to a duel. “Do you require my jacket?” he asks, tugging on the suit coat hanging to his shoulders.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A flash of him stripped to only his shirt, the pale linen washed translucent in the rain, flashes through her mind. No doubt he watches the blush claim her cheeks as Gwen tries to turn away. “Then you would be chilled,” she answers. Her hand raises, about to fan the book at her flaming cheeks but that would only raise more questions.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen chuckles at her answer and, forgetting his mountain of work, drops beside her on the chaise lounge. “I do not chill so easily,” he says. And the Duke of Honnleath, Lord to more titles and lands than she knows, wraps his noble fingers around her shoulders and begins to rub friction to warm her body.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">How she could melt to his touch alone. His fingers—staid and solid as the man owning them—canvass from the near-elbow clear to her collarbone. They never slip lower than is needed for the task, but the touch is certain, making it all the more sensual.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Those eyes of pure amber catch hers and he whispers in his bourbon barrel voice, “Better?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Much. Thank you.” They are but a breath away, their lips parted as they sip the air expelled from the other. Take a kiss. There is no one here to chastise. No one to question it.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">His Lordship turns, the hands that massaged her digging into the back of his neck. Gwen stares limply at her lap and says, “Forgive me for interrupting you.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“You didn’t,” he assures her, and she glances to the obvious worrying over his neck. Cullen follows, the hand popping free and he groans. “This is not your doing. It is a matter of bills of sale, balancing the books for far too many holdings.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t you have accountants and clerks for that?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The duke who could be spending his days watching horse races and playing polo snickers. “It is always best to have another pair of eyes add up the numbers…even if this time they don’t.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Missing some pounds?” A servant or manager nicking a few quid here and there wouldn’t surprise her. Most had a petty cash box for such an eventuality.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“No. In fact, there’s more in the account than should be. I cannot understand.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">What a curious thing to be upset about. Or perhaps it’s the mystery that the world won’t follow the rules no matter how many he puts down. She watches the confounding man wring his knees, his palm careful to swoop over the wounded one. One that need never have known the kiss of a musket, nor anyone else in his family ever having to draw close to battle.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I have a question, if it’s not too personal,” Gwen begins, before demurring out of fear that she might pry too deep.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He laughs, leans back, and stretches his arm across the back of the sofa, his hand cupping her shoulder. “Was it not you who told me there are few things more personal than our courtship? Proceed.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Why did you walk away from your titles?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The snicker from his lips takes a sour turn, Cullen hunkering into his lap even as the palm remains curled to her body. “How could I leave such a lavish lifestyle? Turn my back on the opulence and importance of being the next Duke Rutherford?” His voice strains as if he’s been shouting these very questions to the heavens for months.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen turns her body, only half of her bottom clinging to the edge of the lounge as she tries to peer into his eyes. “More that…” she picks up his hand in hers, her tiny fingers fanning with the scarred ones, “how did you have the strength to walk from guaranteed safety into open conflict?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">His lips part, a breath siphoning into his mouth as he watches her. Slowly, he cinches his fingers around hers, as he says, “I had no other choice.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She raises her head to question that, the obvious choice around them, but he’s staring out across the rain-soaked garden. Just one of many lands forced upon him at birth.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“For a time, I thought that I was destined for this. That I would please my parents, take up the title to defend our lands and name when my father passed…” He stills at that, the edge of his cracked thumbnail wafting over her palm in thought. “But one day I woke and realized I couldn’t. Despite every lesson, every admonishment, every person boosting me upward, every school trying to cane me to gravy and rebuild me, I couldn’t be what they wanted of me.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The weary head telling truths he must have hidden from his family and friends, perhaps even himself, tumbles. In a stricken voice, Cullen whispers, “I wasn’t a good enough man.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen catches his cheek in her palm, her eyes trying to find him below the ocean of pain. “That isn’t true. Not now, and I cannot imagine then.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A heart-wrenching smile tugs at his lips, Cullen cupping her hand to his cheek. “My brother was the calm one, the most patient of us. He didn’t have the burning desire I had to change the world. To help with my bare hands instead of a wave of a pen. He was perfect for this job. And then cruelly struck down by fate in a single blow.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Hoisting both palms out, he stares at the wear in his hands. No one who’d take them in a shake would believe they belonged to a man of the peerage, never mind a duke. The calluses on his pads are healing, but still hard and yellowed from years on the rope. Scars circle the back, no doubt from splinters embedded then removed with teeth or whatever tool was handy. And the tip of his right pinkie is missing, taken perhaps by a shark in passing or the catch of a flintlock hammer in the wrong place.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">They are beautiful hands.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen lifts first the left, then the right, to her lips. With her eyes closed tight, she kisses with all her heart to the thick skin built up across his heart line. As she releases his hand for the other, Cullen rustles the kissed fingers through her hair. The tips roll about the roots, rubbing into her scalp and holding her gently in place.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Slowly, he tips her up to him, his irises nearly eclipsed by the pupils from the darkness of the storms. But a corona of brightest amber circles the edge. Those amber-eclipse eyes dance in hers, Cullen’s voice whispering in a worried gravel, “Would you have cared for me if I was merely a sailor?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen leans closer, her palm placing to his strong chest as she says, “I dare say, I’d have liked you more.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She feels the flex of his fingers, the soft request she rise to him. Her heart thumps the reminder of no chaperone, none to protect her reputation in this dark office of the duke. None save the gentle man pleading for her affection.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Sliding her hands up his back, Gwen pulls him to her, the pair reaching to meet lip to lip. She watches until his eyes slip closed, her own following suit. For a tick, her tongue laps along her lips, hoping they’re soft enough for his touch. The rounded tip of his nose graces her cheek, Gwen turning her chin to the right as the heat of his life washes over her.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A roll of thunder tears the skies asunder.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Both jump in their seats, Gwen whipping her head to the dark garden lit by a pulse of lightning striking the grounds. She doesn’t realize she’s trembling at the raw power of nature until his hand rolls over her shoulder. He too is staring across the dark, hoping to find the horizon to prove that this is still land. All the while, his fingers knot around her sleeve, tugging it lower and lower. Her neckline strains, revealing to the world the soft curve of skin that is her scandalous shoulders.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Cullen,” she whispers, her fingers turning his chin from the bombastic storm to the safety of her. His lips part, those amber eclipses darting to the crumpled mess he made of her dress.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Gwen…” he breathes, his hold on her falling open.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She leaps forward, her lips pressing with the unending hunger against his soft mouth. Quickly, his sculpted lips purse, the kiss guided and certain as his palm sweeps across her naked shoulder. Cullen’s tongue darts across her lips, Gwen inviting him in.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Heat does more than pool in her underused loins, it sings through her veins. The ache for his touch across her body causes her to shiver deep within that green dress. He seems to like it so. How would he like it on the floor?</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Turning, Gwen rises as her knees dig into the cushions. Her hand cupped to Cullen’s chin, she presses him back against the armrest. All the while their lips exchange liquid hot kisses, her thighs nearly straddling his lap. One of his legs hangs off the lounge, her knee almost pressing against that stiff sinew in his trousers. She needn’t even slide forward to feel it rising against its wool prison, the member in desperate need of freedom.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Please.” Cullen’s lips slip from hers, his amber eyes gazing heavenward as he begs. Pleads. “Please, I have wanted nothing more than to…”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A shudder shakes his body, the duke trying to eclipse the man below her. Gwen leans to him, her breasts pooling across his chest, the hint of her cloven inlet below the thin dress pressing to the tip of his cock. With her lips poised beside his ear, she whispers, “Do you want me?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“God, yes,” he gasps, wincing at the veracity in his tone as if it is wrong to wish for a woman.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Then…” Her palm sweeps down to pick up his hand that’d been cupping her hip. She curls his fingers down so they trail across her waist the way one thumbs a lake’s pristine surface. As she reaches her bosom, Gwen finishes, “…have me.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The groan begins with him, but rises in her as he envelops her breast in his palm. He grabs her chin, pulling her to his lips while his other hand tenderly massages under her gifted accouterments. When his thumb twists around her nipple, she gasps in his mouth.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“You know what you’re doing,” she surmises in an instant, her hips pleading with her to sway against the solid cock below her. But that could be too far. Could push beyond…</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">When he adds his other hand to her bosom, she is lost. Rising higher—her lap in his—Gwen tosses her head back and her loins cry for his. She swerves her hips, the chemise offering nearly no resistance, her dress’ silks slick from her own arousal. God save her, she can nearly feel the fullness of him even through the wool.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Suddenly, his hands cup her buttocks, both nails kneading into the cushioning and guiding her grinding. Gwen gulps, trying to find a breath as her body is consumed in flames. A guttural groan of pleasure slips from his lips, the finish heaving into a gasp, and she cries out with the realization she is causing it.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She wants him. She needs him. She would do anything for…</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen’s abs clench, his face rising along with his chest as he stares nearly eye to eye with the one perched in his lap. She can feel herself slipping, but he pins a palm to her back. The scarred fingers nearly stretch clear across her waist, his hand tightening to her skin. With a low growl, he presses his forehead to hers. By that single point of contact, he begins to push her back onto the lounge.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">His left-hand wads up the sleeve on her dress, tugging it as low as its sister. What are his intentions? When the back of her head is cushioned by the armrest she has her answer.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The unleashed man digs both his hands under her lacy neckline, his palms finding her naked breasts below. Gwen cries out, her back arching to try and press all of her fallen flesh into his keeping. She wants his lips on her, on all of her. To caress her belly, to cup her inner thigh, to kiss her ankle as it rests upon his shoulder.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Oh God in heaven.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Her eyes open, staring up at the man highlighted only by the candlelight of the desk. Cullen’s ravenous look fades as he notices her clinging to him. “Please,” she begs, a fear fluttering in her chest. His hands pause in their kneading, though the warmth of them remain ensnared under her cups.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">With a single finger, Gwen draws her hand from the piping of the misaligned jacket, down his askew vest. As she reaches for the waistband, she lifts her head and says, “Please be gentle.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A smile raises his scar, her heart fluttering with a need to kiss it. To run her tongue through the narrow valley and nibble on his lip. But Cullen rises, his hands finally leaving the trap of her dress. He pulls upon the first of the six buttons, those bourbon eyes burning in hers.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Only the beat of rain striking the roof and her heart thundering in her ears fills the silence as one by one, the duke unbuttons his trousers. Not once do his eyes shift, his biceps flexing even below the coat and shirt. Gwen runs her fingers over them, nibbling on her lip at the power in the muscles she cannot see.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The final button falls open, Cullen cupping his brandished cock in hand as he presses his forehead to hers. Together they fall back onto the lounge, his lips parting breaths above hers but not touching. She can feel his vast shaft nestling in the folds of her dress right above where it belongs. Brushing the tips of his fingers over her forehead and down her cheek, he curls them around her jaw.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Always,” Cullen whispers, raising her to his lips for a toe-curling kiss. While she flits the tip of her tongue over that scar dug across his perfect face, Gwen presses her hands to his back. Cullen slips from her nibble, his lips finding succor in her neck and down her throat.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">In a flash, his hands gather her skirts, raising the hemline from scandalous to a fallen woman. He pushes forward, his knees foisting her thighs further and further apart while she tries to meet him. Fingers flutter across her opening, Gwen gulping as just the tip of his shortened pinkie winds its way from the bottom of her folds to the slick top.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Mmmm,” he moans, his lips beside her ear as he licks them in pleasure. “Your heat is driving me mad.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">With all the tenderness he promised, Cullen guides the crown of his arbor vitae to her opening. Gwen swallows, savoring in the feel of his own heat perched upon piercing her. The girth nearly overwhelms her, her toes curling and mouth parting as he thrusts himself deeper into virgin waters.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">There he waits, his sword nearly to the hilt, while she tests herself upon it. “How,” Cullen growls, the edge of his teeth scraping over her jaw. Gwen shivers, her muscles bearing down upon him. “How gentle do you wish me to be?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Harder,” she instructs even as her heart leaps into her throat. Will it hurt? They always said it would hurt.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Mmm…” The teeth nibble along her jaw, reaching the chin. As he softly bites down, his hips pull back—dragging the full thrill from her—and then deep in once. Gwen’s entire world trembles. The thrusts repeat, her head tipping back, the hair she spent all morning on falling to pieces. Cullen’s lips work down her bosom, his chin trying to pull the neckline lower.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Why didn’t she remove her dress? Why didn’t she think to..?</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Oh…oh god!” Gwen cries out. “Faster,” she orders, her body rising to his rhythm. She wraps her legs around his waist, cinching him in so he can plumb her to the very depths.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The thrusting increases to match her erratic heartbeat, every bound of his cock bringing another cry of pleasure from her lips. She wants more. She wants it to never end. She needs…</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen wraps her hands around his head, smothering his face in her bosom as her body strikes pleasure across every center of her being. God, it feels of a warm wave cresting at the height of the ocean’s swell. The awesome power of nature’s hand folding over to consume and send her spiraling into the abyss.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She rises from the welcoming darkness to find her body quivering around his, herself clamping around him. Golden curls pile across her exposed cleavage, his face turned to the side for air. But the smile on his lips leaps to hers and he presses a kiss to her breast.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“We could stop?” he asks, his head rising from where she pinned him, the eyes hungry but his words cautious.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">No. She didn’t want to. If this was to be the end of her, then she needed it all.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen thrusts down with her hips, Cullen groaning as she begins to glide him in and out of her. His knees shuffle, pinning tighter to her hips. One hand grabs at her back, hoisting her up as both lean up. The cock inside of her strains her trembling core, becoming even tighter a fit as he grips to the small of her back and holds her forehead to his.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The heat she thought chased in her orgasm revives, Gwen gasping for air. Cullen’s lips whiffle beside hers, sweat percolating off the brow slipping against hers. His beautiful amber eyes are closed tight, a grimace of concern on his face as he continues to pump into her.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Please, please,” the words sputter from him, the bridge of his nose gliding along hers as he begs, “please let it be.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Thunder shakes the walls, lightning snapping apart the skyline as Cullen groans with the oncoming strike of his own agony of bliss. He falls to her, his lips whispering prayers against her cheek while he fills her with his pearly shower. The heaviness of his body pressing on hers is nothing to the consequences spiraling around them.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen can taste the bitter dose in the air, but she pulls her fingers through his golden hair and refuses to face the truth of her actions. His labored breathing dots against her naked breast, the steam of his lungs warming her from the chill of the outside world. Slowly, he unearths himself from inside her, his face leaving her bosom.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She grits her teeth, fearing a wary look in his eyes from the woman who debased herself without a second’s hesitation. Only the tick of the carriage clock upon the mantle breaks the silence, each second compounding as the Duke tucks himself away to button his trousers. After he’s secured, he parts his palms back through his hair, the curls wild when the tie slipped from its place.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">To her surprise, it is a wry smile upon his face, and an exhausted one as well. He leans back on his side of the lounge and one hand cups along Gwen’s waist. Without any effort, he tugs her from her reclining position up to curl against his chest. Her cheek nestles above his heart, the steady thrum of it and warmth from his arm wrapped around her calming her fears.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">When his lips place a kiss to her hair, a whimper rolls from her throat. The moment is perfect as is, she need not ruin it with whats and ifs. But…</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“If I…” she places a hand above his heart, her eyes swiveling to find the weary ambers of his. “If I fill with your child,” her hand flutters over her empty stomach, “what would you do?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Marry you,” he insists without a moment’s hesitation.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen smiles, her head bobbing to know he wasn’t waiting for the perfect moment to shed his gentlemen skin. “And if I do not carry your babe?” she asks, her teeth biting down on her lip.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">His hand curls around her chin, pulling her higher from her repose until their foreheads meet. “I would marry you still,” Cullen says, his words warming her heart and soul.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Drawing her palm over the scruff of his jawline, Gwen places a sweet kiss to his lips. Cullen returns it, nipping against her tender lips to do so. Her exhausted body wants to curl up in his safe arms, to slumber away in the cocoon of his warmth. But she has to press him one last time.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Is that a true proposal?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I…” his bright lips snort and rise in a smile. “I suppose it is. I’d hoped to think of something more romantic, but…”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen glances her finger to his lips, silencing his self-doubt. “There is nothing more romantic than promising to care for me when I am most vulnerable.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“You are,” his tender hand he offered to her cups her cheek, keeping her eyes burning in his. Another smile wipes away whatever he had planned to speak. “As you say, but if my sister asks, I proposed to you in the garden while down on one knee.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A sunny laugh chases away the last of the gloom lurking in her heart. Gwen snuggles tighter to the man who trusts her with his heart. The soothing beat of it calls to her, lulling her to a slumber of serenity she hasn’t known in her life. Her voice, drowsy with sleep, rises one last time, “I love you.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen holds her tightly in his arms, his words to her soft as a butterfly’s wing. “I love you too.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">While the thunder continues across the flooded land, the pair of them fall into a nap in each other’s arms, knowing that a promise of great things await when they wake.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. A Truth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Not even the rumormongers pressing upon his station can shake the smile off of Cullen’s lips. It’d been relentless these past five moons, to the point he once found himself whistling while in the tub. Perhaps it was unseemly for the lord of the manor to skip about like a giddy schoolboy, but for the first time in ages, he felt as if he wanted to fly.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The sound of the front door opening punctures through the silent office. He meant to use his time to finally fill out the forms the Vicar and others shoved under his nose, but when Gwen circled past his window all hope was lost. She, still in her governess role, ignored the lecherous old man watching from the shadows. All save a small rosy blush on her cheeks and a tiny wave of her fingers before Branson’s lessons required him and her elsewhere on the grounds.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen hears the tell-tale sound of the creaking knobs to his study opening. It must be the jeweler he sent for. Gwen keeps insisting she need not a ring, but he wants to do this properly. Even if his proposal was far from proper.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">That smile winds back over his lips, his eyes hazing over with memories of her body cupped around his. The proposal was perfect in every detail, but not proper.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Milord,” James announces, Cullen’s head snapping up. He has a few ideas for a ring, preferably an emerald to try and approach the beauty of her eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Rising from his desk, cane in hand, he steps towards the shadow gliding in behind James. And his jaw drops. “Caroline?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, thank you, Steward,” the countess shakes her head once at the weary man who closes the door behind her.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“What are you doing here?” Cullen stutters, before glancing back at the mountain of Duke-work he let pile up. “Did we have an appointment? I don’t remember...?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Cullen,” she sighs, the only woman to never use his title. “Tell me it isn’t so.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“That I forgot our meeting?” He stumbles in confusion, staring at her. For a beat, his eyes drift down of their own accord and he finds himself grateful that she is in a modest high neckline dress. A repeat of their last meeting would be a disaster should any in the house overhear it.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Caroline clips once across the floor, her hand perched upon a parasol. “That you, fool that you are, are engaged to your Governess!” Her voice rises into a squeak at the news, her eyes flaring at him.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“So it’s hit the papers...” He didn’t think he’d finished the request for that to be made public yet.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Of course it has! You’re the Duke of Honnleath! Everyone in the entire holding knows about your goings and <em>comings</em>.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Caroline...”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“What is this? Grief? Are you still mourning your father and acting out as if it’s some return to a rebellious stage you passed?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A sneer claims his sunny smile, clouds darkening as Cullen watches the first woman to break his heart attempt to do it a second time. “I am of sound mind, Caroline. And was in high spirits...until your arrival.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Dukes do not marry governesses, or washerwomen, or bakers, or anything of the sort. There is an order to things--”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“The prince gave me permission,” he begins before the hackles rise. How dare she stomp in here and uproot his start to a life with a woman he loves. “I cannot believe you.” His tone flips from apologetic to snarling so fast Caroline freezes in her tracks. “Did my finding happiness upend your plans? What? Once you learned I was Duke did you assume that I’d wait until your husband died and finally make you a Duchess?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The high-born woman whose idea of work is cutting a person down to size with just her tongue huffs thrice. But it’s clear from her lack of comeback that it was so. She assumed she could keep him forever in the wings. Her backup plan.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Caroline closes her harsh blue eyes and pulls in a breath. In a measured tone she no doubt uses on her children, she says, “What do you even know of this woman?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“That I love her more deeply than the ocean’s unreachable bottom.” The least poetic imagery he could dream up, and not something to use in the vows, but Cullen means it.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Those cold eyes meet his and she sighs, “You loved me like that once as well.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“And you left...”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“No, you left,” Caroline prods at his chest. “Didn’t even ask me, didn’t even inform me you’ve given up your title to your brother. Upended your life, mine, everything I saw for my future, so you could take to the sea!”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I...” Cullen clacks his jaw, shamed by the impetuous 18-year-old he once was who only saw shackles in his future. He thought he could save himself and if he didn’t do it quickly, he’d never be free of it. Consequences came later, much later. “I didn’t mean to ruin your life. Regardless, you were quick to find a new path. Married when I’d barely been on ship for two months.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, I did marry because all my life I was assured that I’d be with you. And you left, in the middle of the night. You abandoned me for the navy leaving me with no future but to grow old and unwanted. To never have children of my own. You couldn’t even gift me the possibility of being your wife waiting for you to return. If you’d died out there, with no vows spoken to me, with all assuming I’d already been to your bed, what would I be left with?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He hadn’t considered... In truth, at that age, he thought of his marriage to her as part of becoming a Duke. That he couldn’t have one without the other. “If I’d asked that night, would you have...?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Run away with you? Marry you? Elope?” Caroline’s resolve is shattered, her eyes drifting to the windows to try and hide her tears. “I was foolish as a girl, at least when it came to you. So perhaps. Perhaps I would have spat in the face of everyone in my family and agreed to your impetuous plan. But you never gave me the chance.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">His stomach twists in a knot, Cullen trying to stare anywhere but the woman huffing on his rug. She always was the best at knotting his brain to her logic. He was the cad, she the fair maiden in every argument, every discussion. But he wasn’t the one to try to seduce her. He accepted that she was out of his reach and he moved on.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">To the most wonderful woman imaginable. Forget Caroline, forget what cruel words she spoke. The man she knew is no more, his young innocence baptized in blood and war. Perhaps Cullen was impetuous in his choices, but seeing what she’s become today, he doesn’t regret leaving her behind with his title.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“You married so quickly, I was in the midst of writing a letter to you when I got word,” he whispers, his teeth bared.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I did my womanly duty to my family, to myself. I married well. It was all I could do in the face of your betrayal.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Get out,” Cullen hisses, a finger jabbing to the door. “Get out of my home, out of my holdings, out of my life! All you care about is yourself, and you came here to try and ruin what happiness I have because you have none for yourself.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Caroline is unlike anyone else in his circle. She does not bow or break, her chin high. “I adore my children, they are my happiness. And, as bullheaded as you are, I still care for you all these years on. I called in for every letter from you, celebrated when you left the navy. Worried even in my marital bed.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Then why can’t you be happy for me?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A snort rolls from her nose, Caroline gathering up her skirts. She says not a word while turning to the door, taking his order as genuine. A pang flutters through Cullen’s heart -- uncertain if he can really cast her aside for life. Caroline pauses at the threshold, her gloved palm drawing down the door.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Whoever you think this woman is, however she’s captured your heart, you should know...” Caroline turns, her sharp eyes burning into his, “Lord Trevelyan had no sons.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Winds</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“Young man,” Gwen calls, snatching at Branson’s sticky fingers before his tea of fine jams are decorated across the Duke’s sculptures. She sighs, dabbing at his red-stained palms while looking him in the eye.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“This is why it’s best to wash up both before and after eating,” she admonishes, but lightly. There is little harm done beyond a few tracks along the walls.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, Ma’am,” the boy mumbles before his eyes swing up to the grand staircase above them. “Cullen!” he shouts, rushing to the man with a book nearly shoved to his nose.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">At the boy’s cry, the Duke glances down and a smile curves his lips. He wraps a comforting hand around Branson in a half hug, the boy telling him about all the wondrous things they discovered that day -- such as what the effect of acetic acid and baking soda can have. That impressed him far greater than any discussion of how plants require sun and soil to survive.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“And then, and then,” Branson tugs on his uncle’s collar, dragging the man closer, “she told me a ghost story.” The sticky finger points to the governess waiting patiently at the bottom of the stairs.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The smile melts and the hairs on the back of Gwen’s neck begin to rise. For these past few days his Grace has been unavailable, his tone curt and steps hurried. She brushed it off as work or perhaps the stress of this wedding, but the longer his eyes linger upon her without mirth inside the greater the dread grows.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Unaware of the adults having a harried discussion without words, Branson continues, “It was really scary. I liked it a lot.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Good good.” He dismisses his nephew out of hand and begins to trail down the steps. “Why don’t you go play with your wooden horses? I need to speak with your Governess.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“M’kay,” the boy calls, happy to leap up the stairs two or three at a time to reach his room. She watches him instead of the unreadable man looming above her. If she closes her eyes, she feels as if it’s five months prior and she’s the naive interloper clinging to her bag and peering in on a supposed man of iron sitting by the fire. All the warmth of before has fled and she cannot understand why.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“It wasn’t really a ghost story, only an old fairytale my mother used to tell me,” she tries to offer by way of explanation.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Your mother, yes.” The duke pauses close enough they may speak privately, but far enough away no one would think they were betrothed. “I wanted to ask you about your family. A question has been raised--”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen lifts her head, meeting him eye for eye as if she has nothing to hide. But her hands fall behind her back, knotting together to pinch should the worst come to pass. His Grace opens his mouth, no doubt prepared to drop the killer blow, when the front door to the manor flies open.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Your Lordship,” a man of the royal navy rushes inside, his hat askew. “I have a letter for you from Lieutenant Barris. It’s urgent.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The duke’s eyes close in contemplation before he spins on his foot and greets the messenger. After snatching up the letter, he reads through the lines quickly, the vein in his forehead bulging higher and higher.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Again! I have had enough. This shall be dealt with by me personally,” he speaks to the messenger only.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“My Lord, no one is certain it even is one of their boltholes.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I trust Delrin’s intel as I would my own eyes,” he finishes his cryptic assurance to the navy man and shouts, “James! Call to the shore to ready my ship.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The Steward appears as if by magic, his head cocked to the side, “Sir?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“And pack.” Cullen stuffs the letter into his pocket, burying it deep so no thief can touch it. “I’ll require a week’s worth of clothing and something more seaworthy than this.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He spins to take the stairs nearly as quickly as his nephew before he pauses and turns to the woman left out in the cold. “Miss Trevelyan,” he says, his shoulders rod straight, “accompany me.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Her jaw drops. After the past week, she’d been waiting for him to annul their engagement, hurl her from the house, or pretend he didn’t even know her. Taking her on a trip without Branson is a confounding message.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“As you—” She bows her head when James intercedes.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Sir, a woman on a ship is...”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I’m well aware of the superstition. Sailors are nothing but superstitious children, however, she wishes to be my wife. I think we can make an exception.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The ‘wishes’ hangs in the air like a blade about to puncture a lung. Her only question is whose. Gwen’s skin prickles, her hair rising but she cannot easily flee. Not now. Bowing deeper, she says, “I shall go and pack.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Pulling in a deep breath, she walks past him towards her sleeping quarters. For a brief moment, the hard line in his mouth softens and his eyes sweep across her. She wants to pray that whatever’s struck him in the heart is lessening, but the chill in her marrow beats a constant warning. All is not well.</span>
</p><p class="p5"> </p><hr/><p class="p5"> </p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Their carriage ride to the shore did nothing to deflate her confusion or fear. Sometimes his Grace rode in the carriage with her, speaking of little matters. Others he rode with the driver, his voice lower and growling. Not once did he broach her family again. Dread sows in Gwen’s heart as she approaches the line of ships in the docks beside the cliffs of the ocean.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Perched between massive shipping frigates rests a smaller bilander, its two masts more approachable to the intimidating three of the royal navy. The rows of cannons prodding from the lower decks like broken teeth in the jawbone of a highwayman cause Gwen to hunker deeper into her shawl.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">James was left behind to tend to Branson, a new man of thinner build handling the movement of his Grace’s luggage onto the ship. Only ten sailors shuffle along the decks, their outfits not of the navy but too pressed and cleaned to belong to real men of the sea. Perhaps late hires for what is assumed to be a pleasure cruise?</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Sails red as blood hang from the masts, only the flag of the land and his Grace’s family crest catching in the breeze. As she shuffles between the men, feeling out of place in her soft skirts amongst the roughed hides of sailors, Gwen’s mind falls back to where she never wanted to revisit. The smell of tar and pitch patching holes, the sting of salt against a sunburnt face, the splintered boards below bare feet.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I promise you,” his Grace speaks, shaking her from her dark fall. She turns to him, her eyes widening as he extends his hand to her, “it’s not so scary once you’re on the open water.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He thinks she fears sailing. A blush burns over her cheek at the simple misunderstanding, but Gwen doesn’t race to correct him. Taking his hand, she lets him help her onto the deck of the ship. All the while she keeps repeating in her head that she is a governess and nothing more.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">As Cullen moves to join her, a wave crashes against the hull, shaking the ground under them. His body leans too far forward and Gwen turns, her hand reaching out to catch him. It presses to his stomach, helping to keep him upright as the experienced sailor tries to reorient himself. For the first time in a week, his eyes stare at her without a touch of guarded concern. They drift about her face, his lips parting as he watches her pull in a breath, her hand caressing over his chest.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Your Lordship!” a sailor shouts and the spell is broken. The duke pulls away to shout orders to raise the mains and weigh anchor. Wherever they are off to, whatever they are doing, they’re on their way.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">That same dread fills Gwen’s stomach and she watches the dock unlatch from the ship, the plank falling away. If she’s wrong, if there is no hope for her, then she just let herself be trapped on a ship of her personal doom.</span>
</p><p class="p7"> </p><hr/><p class="p7"> </p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Gwen haunts about the deck, watching the sailors more-or-less sail. His Lordship took point at the wheel, barking orders only a navy man would respond to. The winds quickly filled their sails, the ship turning towards the west to chase the setting sun. It’d be night soon, which would raise the question of where she’d be sleeping. She hadn’t the energy to ask before, and--as she tugs off her bonnet to feel the sea air through her hair--the idea of slumbering on deck below the stars isn’t a bad one.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She leans over the side, glancing at the waves sparkling in the wake, and the fish leaping to join in their school. An illusion of freedom, thinking that joining the largest fish in the pond will protect you. Will give you a chance at a better life.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Putting up with men of a sour disposition was part and parcel of being a woman. They did not wish to parse their pains, so they left it upon the shoulders of the women around them. She knew that, knew that it would be expected of her from both any sons she had and... Her eyes drift to the man astride the wheel.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He’s forgone the cane, his head naked so the long curls catch in the wind. The jacket James insisted upon is lost, leaving him in a fine shirt and vest, but no shoes. He almost looks at peace facing into the sun and whatever has sent him on this path to hell.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Stepping to the duke, the man who is supposed to become her husband, Gwen says, “I would like to speak with you.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Oh?” His distant look across the horizon fades, the amber eyes snapping to her.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Privately, please.” Her back is straight this time, her jaw raised in defiance. Whatever may come of this, she must do it. And, if he throws her overboard, she can swim.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The duke glances to the navigator, the man quickly taking the wheel. Extending his hand to the captain’s small cabin, he jerks his chin and waits for Gwen to walk towards it. All the while he lingers behind. Trading glances with the others in his conspiracy?</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He’s not going to mutiny you, Gwen. It doesn’t work that way.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The only private cabin is small, a single bunk bed below the open windows, a crate to act as potential shaving basin and toilette, and just enough room for the pair to stand nearly on top of each other.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Filling her lungs with what she hopes will be courage, Gwen’s nose breathes in the scent of amber and oakmoss—of the man of the sea she thought she fell in love with. “I am not a fool,” she says, breaking the silence between them. “I know when a man is angry with me, avoiding me. Refusing to talk to me.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">His Lordship’s eyes drift down as if he’s in denial of his own actions these past days. But Gwen cannot stop what she’s put into motion. “If you cannot speak to me why you’ve turned cold, then it is in our best interests to...forget about the proposal.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The bourbon eyes burn in hers, Cullen rising towards her as if he suddenly thinks she needs comfort for the truth. Yes, he was her first, and as fallen as that may make her, she’d rather walk the world alone than be trapped to a man who hates her because of one afternoon.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“No,” he sputters, “no, I don’t want...I...” The duke wrings a hand over his forehead, hiding his gaze from her. “I love you.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“If these past weeks are how you show love...” Gwen begins when he grabs her hand. Her heart thunders in her chest, the warnings trying to catch fire, but she’s lost in the waves of sadness crashing in his eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“They aren’t. I’m, I require clarification first, before anything can proceed. About your family.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Here it comes. Gwen steels herself, her chin rising to face him.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“You call yourself a Trevelyan, but that cannot be. The only Lord Trevelyan died fifteen years ago...with no sons.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I am aware,” she says, unfazed by his question.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“You...you know. But you cannot be a Trevelyan. Who are you?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“My mother was a Trevelyan. I wear her name instead of my father’s because he...” tears spring in Gwen’s eyes and she tries to glance away, “he does not deserve to have his lineage carried.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The information processes through his Lordship slowly, his lips moving as if he both wants and doesn’t want to believe her. “Your mother, which daughter was she?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Rebecca Trevelyan, the third of five,” Gwen’s voice is stone. “She told me little of her father beyond moments of her childhood in a small castle by the lake so I’m afraid I cannot answer many questions to prove my worth.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, that is one of his...” he begins before realizing she’s on to his game.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen tugs her hand out of his and crosses her arm, “You could have simply asked. I do not hide that I carry my mother’s name instead.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“This is...unorthodox.” He tries to cling to anything to excuse his actions. “Is it to help you find placement?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“No,” Gwen shakes her head, “the name means little this far north and besides, my mother was excised from the will upon her marrying my father. Even she did not want the name upon her death.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1"><em>In a poor house, coughing blood on the stones, whispering about the golden slippers she’d worn to her five-year-old daughter as if Gwen could turn back time and gift her the excess she once knew.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She doesn’t realize tears fall from her eyes until a finger cups her cheek. Her instinct is to rear back, to lift a hand to protect herself so she can cry alone in the hold. But he catches her rising hand and presses it to his chest.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The soothing thump of his heart washes up her arm, Gwen mewling as every buried emotion smashes into her at once.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I am so sorry,” he whispers, his thumbs trying to dry her tears. When that isn’t enough, Cullen pulls her into his arms, her cheek falling to his chest. “I never should have...you’re right. I should have asked you before assuming.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1"><em>You’re playing with fire.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen wraps her hands around him, wishing the full reach of his embrace could shield her. “It’s all right,” she whispers.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1"><em>You’re going to get burned.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Tipping her chin to his chest, she gazes up into his amber eyes. “You couldn’t know.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen bends lower, the bridge of his nose gracing hers as he whispers again, “Please, please forgive me. Please don’t leave because of...”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Her finger glances to his pleading lips, his eyes opening to a find a soft smile on hers. “I won’t. I promised,” she says, rising on her toes. Cullen closes his eyes, his lips brushing hers to seal the kiss.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Thunder rattles the whole of the ship. The pair fly apart, eyes wild as another crack of lightning strike the waves. Storm on the open sea.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Can they survive? </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. A Squall</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“Remain here,” Cullen orders, bolting from the small cabin into a deluge. Dark clouds crowd the skies, blotting away the horizon so one cannot tell where sea becomes air. Water gushes from above, drenching Cullen as he skids towards the wheel. All around him are the mass of sailors tugging on rigging.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Get the mains down! Now!” he shouts, digging his thumb into the rotating wheel. It nearly breaks his wrist, but he holds firm, refusing to give in to the machinations of Neptune’s wrath.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen glances past the men scurrying to tug in the sails before their ship is tipped over from the winds. From the very dregs of the ocean rise twisting water spouts. And one is bearing down upon them!</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Hold tight!” he screams, hauling the wheel to turn the ship starboard as fast as he can. Where in the devil did this squall come from?</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">His ship pitches to right, cresting along with a vengeful wave as water sprays against his face horizontally. And you brought her into this. The woman you love could die because you were too cowardly to confront her on land. Why can you not learn to trust...</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A spot of green breaks from the drenching greys of rain and Cullen’s breath clogs. For it can only be Gwen stepping from the secure cabin, the ribbons of her dress whipping in the rain. She stands staring dead straight into the heart of the spout as it clips to the side, just missing the ship it’d have ripped in half.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Gwen!” Cullen shouts, trying to call to her. “Get back inside!” It’s the only chance of safety on this ship.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Her head turns, the ebony curls plastered to her head from the rains as she eyes him up. There isn’t terror in her beautiful face, only conviction. It causes the breath to clog in his lungs, when a snap echoes from the lines.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The second sail whips away from the hands supposed to be tying it down. As it catches the wild winds, the ship spins with. “Shit!” Cullen shrieks, the wheel ripping from his hands and spinning away. The floor under him pitches, sending nearly all hands to the decks. Even with the winds and rains thundering upon him, he hears two deadly splashes of bodies tossed from the ship.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen?!</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The sail reaches the end of its swing, hanging out over the open waves cresting higher than buildings in Val Royeaux. The ship ceases its spinning, Cullen finally able to get a grip on the wheel, but there’s a new problem. Untethered and filled with wind, the sail is dragging them directly towards the rocks below the cliffs.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Secure that sail before we’re breached!” Cullen shouts, trying with all his strength to twist the ship to take the storm head on. Even with life hanging on the line, he glances from the bolts of lightning to Gwen.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She’s still on board and is...tying her hair up. The soft slippers fly off her feet, the gentle woman running for the second mast. Sailors strain at the edge of the ship, hands trying to catch the snapped rope dangling in the open ocean.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">And Gwen, a governess and child of nobility, is climbing up the mast as if she was born in a crow’s nest.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“What are you doing?!” Cullen cries, his heart lodging in his throat. He can’t be certain if she even hears him, her body little more than a drenched dress wrapping around the pole. She inches out towards the pounding waves below, her hands surely slick from the rain. It’d be little more than a bump to send her crashing to her death.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">His shoulders scream at him, but he will not let the rudder take control. Pain shoots up his knee, Cullen blinking feverishly to keep the view of her reaching the edge of the sail. It must be hell out there, her body shuddering against every ounce of nature trying to get her to fall. But she isn’t even trembling, her hands smoothly reaching down to gather the fallen rope.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">With a measured throw, she tosses it to the sailors who quickly begin to tug both the sail and Gwen back towards the ship. Cullen doesn’t resume breathing until her nimble feet touch the deck.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Oh shit!” he cries as a wave crests over their ship. Water plunges into his nose, the salt stinging his open eyes, but he clings desperately to the wheel. It pulls on him, trying to drag him to the ocean floor, but he will not go without a fight. Not when there’s still a chance.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The ship rights itself quickly, water receding from his lungs. He tries to shake out the damp curls wadding in his eyes and takes quick inventory of those remaining. A bright sprig of green lays beside the gunwale but Gwen’s already rising to her feet. There are only four or five sailors left on deck. Cullen realizes no one remains at his side, which means the navigator was ripped into the ocean. He’s on his own to right this disaster.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Another big one!” a voice calls, everyone huddling for safety.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen snarls, straining to turn into the wave, but the rudder refuses to listen. The winds continually spin them for the rocks they just missed before. Get out of this storm, avoid the rocks, seek shelter and regroup. He can do this.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A hand grabs the peg beside his, a soft hand that’s knotting into a gnarl. She tugs with him, her teeth bared as Gwen gives a loud grunt. Slowly, the ship banks, the nose rising directly into the path of the wave. As it rolls towards them, the ship just manages to climb water for once not wiping them out.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Panting raises the bodice clung to Gwen’s chest, her eyes whipping around as she snatches up a fallen rope. Cullen watches her knot it around her waist, his jaw falling slack. “Who are you?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Tie this on,” she says instead, dangling the rope beside him.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“No, I have to steer...”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Cullen, we are at the mercy of the squall,” the supposed governess snarls, already knotting around his waist as he hangs onto the wheel. She finishes the knot to said wheel, the pair of them bound together. “I will not lose you,” Gwen swears, her hands gripping to the wheel for support.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Below them, the other sailors are doing the same, dreaded eyes turning to the rising waterspouts. But all Cullen can look at is the gritted jawline and set eyes of his betrothed. Who or what is she?</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen raises her eyes from the washed deck, meeting his and for a moment the certainty wavers. She knows as well as he does how dangerous this northern storm is. And neither want to die in it.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“A twister ahead!” the sailors call.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen tries to steer out of the way, but it's baring down too quickly. Gwen slots in beside him, trying to aid in the sluggish rudder but there isn’t time. It’ll rip their ship to shreds and send the debris washing for the shore. Just as the deadly winds strike, the crumple of wood shattering the air, water striking his face, Cullen wraps a hand around Gwen’s waist. He closes his eyes as hell crashes around them.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Shipwrecked</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Warm copper pools on her tongue, Gwen shaking her head as she swallows blood. Her own or...? Light pierces through her hooded lids, the pain slicing from the back of her brain forward. She raises one hand to try and shield the unexpected sun. When moving to lift the other, she finds it tethered.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The storm, the ship, the shore...</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1"><em>Cullen!</em> </span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Blinking against the white haze swept across her vision, her ears fill with the pounding of waves sweeping over a rock-strewn beach. The ship was split in twain by the spout, her larboard end shoved against the large boulder not even ten meters from the shoreline. Any deeper into the storm and she’d have been paste.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A presence rests beside her. Gwen turns her still tied-down body to the form slumped over. Matted blonde hair smears across the face, the chin tipped down, his clothing ripped to shreds hanging off a still chest. Fear clutches tight to Gwen’s heart, her marrow-chilling with a cold far deeper than any the Atlantic can muster.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“No!” She tries to reach for the body beside her, noticing the cool blood staining down the front, but her tied hand stops her. Frantic, she claws at the rope, coiling it tighter around her wrist until a red welt rises from her skin. But she’s free.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Launching from her crumbling prow, she turns to the fallen man, her eyes finally able to see the broken spear of wood impaled through his chest. <em>Please. Please, no!</em></span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen rolls her fingers through the soggy blonde hair, picking the chin up, and is met by an unfamiliar face. Relief floods through her first, then shame at her celebrating the death of a different man. At that moment, a groan echoes from near the rock.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Scrabbling over the splintered floorboards, Gwen peers down the teetering remains to find Cullen laying a deck below. He must have fallen through in the chaos and the hole saved his life.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Cullen!” she cries, already sliding over the edge. The fall is into brackish water, but Gwen doesn’t flinch as her skirts balloon out in the waves. Her bare feet scrape over rocks, no doubt scattering more of her blood into the salty sea as she reaches for him.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Slowly he sits up, a hand to his forehead. He focuses his gaze upward at the crumpled hull of the ship, already moving to stand.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Wait.” She finally pulls herself onto the rock beside, her fingers smoothing over his hair to look for more wounds. “You could be injured,” she chastises as if she’s his nurse.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Those amber eyes narrow at her, Gwen shaking off the urge to run, then slowly they melt. He runs his splintered hand over her forehead and whispers, “You are.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She winces when he touches the gash, Cullen doing the same at his accidental move. The pair stare across an abyss she built by keeping her past where it lay. Gwen wants to reach over, to hold his hand and confess everything, but the creaking of wood above tells her to move.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“We need to get to shore,” she announces, scooping a hand around his waist.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The captain of many ships narrows his eyes at her bossing him around, but he acquiesces. “Agreed.” Together they stumble off the wooden planks of the splintered ship and through the bracing water. Dawn has risen, but the storm churned the seas cold, which seeps into their only clothing.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">As they reach the shore, Cullen slips from her grip, his wounded knee crumpling him to the rocks below. With only the pound of the surf and their belabored breathing for sound, they stare across the shoreline punctured with the bones of their ship. Is anyone else alive? Is any of it salvageable?</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Slowly, Gwen catches the eye of the man she’s shipwrecked with on a cold, rocky shore. In some other tropical location, without the press of questions and silent glares, she dare think it romantic. But here it’s a wary look he pins to her.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“We’re going to be trapped here for a while,” she begins, tiring of the silent stalemate, “you may as well speak what is on your tongue.” Gwen turns from him even as she asks him to open up, trying to gather wood for a bonfire. They’ll either need it to signal a ship for rescue...or warmth should the worst befall them.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen tries to rise, as if he feels it his duty to stand above her in both station and stature. Sighing, Gwen hurls the waterlogged planks to the beach and scoops a hand to his arm. There’s no cane to offer him, but she finds a shaft of driftwood that can manage it.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">When his candlelight eyes meet hers, she gulps, the vim of her statement evaporating. “Who are you?” he asks.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I told you, I’m...”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“You...” He gestures towards some section of the ship now either underwater or floating in the bay. “You leapt onto the mast. You climbed as if your toes are fishhooks. That isn’t...” His stuttering narrowed to venom, and he spat, “Women are not sailors.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen smirks. “Then perhaps I am not a woman after all.” Her head aches, her body chilled, her wit at its end, and her heart quietly breaks through it all.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Her answer brings a snarl from the duke, his lip rising. “No one teaches women to sail.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“So you imagined it.” She shrugs, spinning back to her work of trying to keep them both alive.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">His hand lashes onto her arm, Cullen pulling her face close to his, “No one reputable has a woman on their ship.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen hurls her shoulders down, shaking him off of her. To her surprise he gives in without a fuss, letting her walk away. “Yes, you’re right. No one in the Privateering business would ever think to let a woman walk their decks. But here I am, capable of tying knots, climbing masts, and hoisting sails with as much skill as any seadog.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She doesn’t want him to watch her cry, her back turned to him as she wraps her arms tighter and tighter around her chest. “My mother, foolish as she was, fell in love with a conman. Until her dying day, he worked every scheme he could dream up to give her the house she deserved.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen flips around, her heart dead. “She died in the gutter with only me to wipe her brow. My father was off on some other plan to bring in riches with my younger brother in tow. He hated being gifted only one male heir in the end.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“That...” His Grace’s voice catches, his form lilting to the side as if he’s still swaying on the waves. “That doesn’t explain why you can sail.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“No? You’ve already guessed as such, I’m certain. My father was a smuggler. He wasn’t even good at that, but we were, my brother and I.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“You’re...you’re a criminal!”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">There it was. The only way any could ever see her. When she walked into that old house by the garden and realized a man of the royal navy ruled it, Gwen felt in her bones she should have turned on her heel and ran. He’d learn who she was in time.It was in their blood to sniff out smugglers, thieves, pirates.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">And then, when he began to pitch forward, her empathy took hold. She ran to help him and, in that moment, with his grace in her arms, those eyes burning in hers, she chose to risk everything. She wanted to see him every day for as long as she could.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She walked to her own gibbet.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I can’t, I can’t believe that...” The Captain spat, glaring at the sky as if the gulls were somehow to blame for the subterfuge. “You, you worked as a smuggler. They kill men.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I have never taken a life,” Gwen thunders, able to cling to one of the few commandments she hadn’t broken at her father’s orders. Thou Shall Not Steal was shattered on her sixth birthday. “With my small frame, and dressed my brother’s clothing, I could easily sneak aboard other’s ships as a deck boy to mark cargo. In time there were other skills that emerged, subterfuge and such mostly.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“You sound proud.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“You mistake exhaustion for pride. I’m well aware of what I was, how valuable I was to the operation. It’s why the chance of my escaping that life couldn’t happen until my father perished.” Tears rise in her eyes -- for the life she could have had, for the life she left behind, and even for her dead father.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen aches to crumble to the sands, to bury her head in it as if this has all been some horrible nightmare and she’ll awaken back at the estates. But there is no erasure of her misdeeds, no hand to absolve her. All she has left is the man she thought she loved staring down at her. She cannot read his thoughts, but it is clear that the man of law and order will never look upon her with grace and kindness again.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Hate me as you must,” Gwen sighs, glancing to the sea, “but I had no say in joining that life I was born into. And when I had the chance, at eighteen, with only the clothes on my back, I ran. Fool that I am for thinking you might understand.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">His lips part, the duke funneling in air at the weary gaze in her eyes. She’s so tired of pretending to be better than her birthright after years of pretending to be less than it. She is the daughter of a Lady and cohort of a smuggler in the same breath. If he cannot understand that, then...</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Movement catches Gwen’s eye and as she turns, the sunlight strikes a glint of steel. “Well, this is an interesting catch to have washed up on our shores.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A man not waterlogged, nor wearing a uniform save that of a scoundrel, walks towards them with his weapon drawn. To her shock, the duke steps in front of it, his hand trying to hide her behind him.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“We were shipwrecked in the storm,” he says.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Here I thought you were all brought to visit by the Satinalia Fairy,” the man with two gun holsters strapped to his chest paces even closer.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen tries to hide her, as if he should be the one to take blade or bullet, but Gwen wouldn’t hear of it. “What do you want?” she calls, peering out from beside his shoulder.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A smile of gold and black rises from the scoundrel. “To have a little chat with some of my dear friends.” And with that, he waves the sword towards whatever bolthole the mass of smugglers were hiding in.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Unarmed and defenseless, Cullen and Gwen march towards it, not knowing if they’ll again see the light of day.</span>
</p><hr/>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Pirates</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">His hands rest behind his back, the cheap hemp digging into his flesh as the scoundrel shoves him along. They trudge further down into a dripping cavern, lamps of whale oil splattering black ichor across the rocks. And beside him walks the woman he thought he knew. The one who lied to him from the moment she stepped foot in his house.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">If they get out of here...</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">When they get out of here, he will have to--</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A small chirp rolls off of Gwen’s tongue. It’s so soft it’s doubtful any can hear, but Cullen turns to the woman who risked discovery by threatening her own life for them. She’d seemed calm and unflappable upon the shoreline, gathering wood while declaring herself to be an enemy of the crown. But walking into darkness, his heart sinks from its throne of wrath at the haunted look in her eyes. She fears whatever awaits them.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Those emerald eyes of his dreams flit over to Cullen and realization thunders through him.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">No. She fears what he will do with the full truth.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">What will he do?</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Keep moving, already!” A hand slams into his back, nearly buckling Cullen’s already angry knee. He feels himself sinking to the ground when a shoulder presses to his chest. She cannot offer her hand so she does her best. For a beat, Cullen wants to be the one to console her, to swear that everything will be alright.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">But then he remembers she is a child of scoundrels and thieves. She’s raided these shores he swore to protect. She isn’t worthy of a title, or lands, or anything else his hand would gift her.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen turns away from her, pretending he doesn’t hear her gasp of pain at his cold shoulder. They slink past an obvious staging area for the smugglers, cargo taking most of the area, and boats floating upon a small tidepool while waiting for the next attack.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Handfuls of men in the same tattered vests and ripped trousers lounge about, the stench of tobacco and rum practically visible in the air. Their captor nods at one man left to stand guard beside a frigate’s sail turned into a curtain. “Boss’ll want to see ‘em,” he says to the man, who leaps off his barrel and tugs the curtain aside.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A gasp rattles in Cullen’s lungs as they walk from the splintery planks of the would-be pirates into the pillowed and perfumed world of a debauched marquis. The tobacco scent is replaced by fine perfumes of the Turks, though he notes the rum stench remains.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Cap’n!” their captor calls and a figure disentangles himself from a mass of silks upon a reclining couch. His skin is a soft brown, pampered and cared for as if he’d never seen a day on the ocean. The mustache is worn how an Orleasian would, bowed and curled at both ends, and the patch of hair below his lip allowed to curate. The eyes sweep across the pair almost dully, as if he’s shrugging off penny dreadfuls at the stands.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">It’s the man’s outfit that nearly sends the old Captain himself into stitches. Ruffles frame his exposed chest, the coat of a blue suede that wouldn’t last a day on the sea, and his hat. God save him, but that hat fell off of a legendary pirate laid to rest in Davy Jones’ locker thirty years hence. He looks like a right pillock with the jewels of his gains dangling off his neck, but Cullen has enough sense to know not to say as such to his captor’s face.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Well,” the man stands to his full height, meeting Cullen eye to eye. “This is a surprise.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen raises his chin, prepared for a battle of wits, but it’s to Gwen he turns. “Little Sparrow, herself,” he crows, “in my humble palace by the sea, no less.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen purses her lips tight but nods her head once to him. “Pavus.” She knows him? Another arrow strikes through his heart as the reality settles upon him. His love truly was a smuggler.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Come now,” the dandified smuggler holds a hand to her, “it’s Dorian for you. Captain Sparks for the rest of you layabouts,” he calls to his murderous crew who are huddling closer to the entrance. To protect their boss or just typical curiosity? Either way, there’s little chance of Cullen making any sort of move.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“What in heaven’s name are you doing in these waters?” Captain Pavus puts to her, his hand wrapped around her arm. There is little threat but Cullen still bares his teeth at the familiarity.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Surviving,” Gwen whispers, her head hanging lower.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“There’s a rather appreciable difference between surviving,” he parts his hand to the bedraggled shipwreck survivors, then raises both to encompass his den of sin, “and living. It pains me to see you in such dire straights. If your brother knew--”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“He needs not!” Gwen cries, her first outburst since she ripped out his heart with the truth.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Dorian’s bright smile quirks into a guarded smirk. “That remains to be seen. Regardless, I believe he remains near Antivan waters.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A snort shoots from Gwen’s nose at that, her eyes rolling. “He never could turn away from their leather.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">
    
  </span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The Captain joins in with the laughter, his thumb rustling through the mustache before those grey-ice eyes hone in on Cullen. “Who are you?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen raises his chin high, and in a stern voice declares, “I am Prince Alistair.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Pavus snorts once. “While the Prince is fair of face and has more fluff than brains, even he is not dimwitted enough to declare his real title to pirates.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The idea of them being pirates, most of whom had been wiped from the seas by the Royal Navy when Cullen was born, cause him to scoff. Which is when the Captain draws a sword from his hip. Gwen tries to dart in the way, crying, “Dorian, wait, you don’t...”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">But Pavus shoves her aside, his lips twitching as he eyes up Cullen. “I’m a fair scoundrel who believes in second chances, so I’ll ask one more time and you best tell the truth unless you wonder what your innards look like as a belt. Who are--”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Captain,” a new voice calls from behind. Cullen knows better than to turn, but Dorian’s eyes dart up off of the man he’s threatening. He could turn and try to lash an elbow out, but with his hands tied, there wasn’t much of a step two to take.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I’m rather detained at the moment, Samson,” Dorian says as a man who looks like a shaved lapdog left in the sun stumbles in.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Yer not gonna want to threaten this one.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Why ever not?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">This Samson grips to his boss's shoulder and in a voice loud enough everyone can hear, whispers, “He’s the Duke.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Fasta vaas!” The sword vanishes from Cullen’s chest, quickly sheathing upon the pirate’s hip, but he knows there are others in range. “Truly? Which brain-dead lout captured the Duke of Honnleath? Was it you, Freddy?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The air shifts in an instant from ramping threats to annoyance. Dorian yanks off his feathered hat, his hands rustling through his hair as he snarls in more of his foreign tongue. The other pirates all look as chastised as Branson when he’s caught tracking mud in the house. Only Samson stands smug, his eyes glaring at Gwen. Some foolish instinct in Cullen pushes him to slide closer to protect her, as if he could do anything alone against this force.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“You’ve really screwed us all now, you know. Yes, especially you Freddy. I don’t know why I haven’t keelhauled you already!” The captain curses more before a bright smile rises on his lips and he turns to Cullen. “So sorry, minor mix-up. Shall be with you momentarily.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">It’s Samson the harried man grabs, trying to pull him away to whisper to, but Cullen’s growing more incensed by this turn of events. “What in the nine hells is going on here?!”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Well, see, your Graceness...” Samson begins before Dorian knocks his elbow into the man’s gut.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Your Lordship,” he doffs his hat and bows as if they’re greeting each other across a ballroom. “I’m afraid that due to an incompetence on my side, which will be handled very soon...once I find the bucket of crabs at least, our arrangement has been soiled. But no mind, no mind, it can be repaired.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Arrangement?” Cullen starts, his brow clouding. “What do you speak of?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">To his surprise, it’s Gwen who laughs hard and cold. She shakes her head, her eyes rolling as she whispers, “Of course. Now it all makes sense.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“What does? What is going on!” Cullen shrieks, well aware his voice is growing shrill but he can take no more of these half-sided conversations.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“No proper introductions, of course. Let me try again,” Dorian begins. “We are your <em>shipping crew</em>.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“My what?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I’m beginning to rethink that dim assessment from earlier,” he throws off out of hand before grimacing at his talking down to a Duke. “We take care of the freight your estate ships all over the world.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“No,” Cullen clacks his teeth, “you steal my ships. I’ve been tracking your movements for months. The moment my ships slip near this bay, they vanish.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Dorian winks and lays a finger beside his nose. “Only to reappear later with more cargo than when they left.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“What?” Cullen’s head shakes, his heart darkening at the lies this pirate is spinning. They have to be. He can’t possibly be working in conjunction with...with... “No. No,” he whispers, stumbling back as the scoundrels put their heads together.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“And now we have lost plausible deniability. There’s a reason your father always insisted we never meet face to face. Wise man, that one. Quick to know where to hide the bodies.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Bodies?! Cullen’s heart can take no more, his body slumping to the ground. Once again, that helping shoulder pushes into him, propping him up. And he cannot turn it away because she’s...she’s as worse as him.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen tries to steady him but he feels his entire world crumbling under his feet. Once Cullen knew he was in the right—of the law, of the crown, of God. And now? He’d been an accomplice to who knew how many crimes all because of his family without his knowledge.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“What will you do with him?” the woman who he simply wanted to marry speaks. She doesn’t ask about herself, perhaps she doesn’t have to. Or...does this Pavus intend worse for her? The brother mentioned? Will he sell her back to him? Would Cullen never see her again?</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“That is the thousand galleon question now, isn’t it?” Pavus mutters, his fingers twirling his mustache into a spiral.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">That Samson fellow eyes up the crumbling Duke and the woman at his side. “Ransom ‘em.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Of course!” Dorian snaps his fingers. “Give it a few days, send a message to the estate. How much does a Duke go for these days?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“You cannot be serious,” Cullen staggers to his full height, not about to be treated like chattel by some murderous pirates. “I refuse to be...” A filthy rag slips over his mouth, silencing his voice.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He glares death, hot air spitting from his nose as Pavus draws closer. Tapping a hand to Cullen’s cheek, Dorian says, “It’s for your own benefit, your Grace. Take them to the cages. We’ll figure out what to do with Ms. Arainai at a later date.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">With no footing, no grip, and no voice, Cullen is pulled from this scoundrel’s sight and to a future darker than any he can understand. For a brief moment, he tries to reach for Gwen with his tied hands, to know she yet stands before him, but she’s pulled away as well. Cullen is left alone on his march to the pirate’s cage.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. The Truth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Smugglers.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Scoundrels.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">His entire family?</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen smacks the back of his head against their prison, the flimsy bars rattling in the dirt. He’s been chained to look out through a blind across the sea below. Well, chained is a reach. The best they could manage is a few knots around his wrists, none of these pirates certain how to treat this confounding Duke in their presence. Gwen, he fears, is another story.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He knows she is in the cage behind him, her voice silent. Save the occasional rustle of her dress, he’d fear that they took her elsewhere. Or that she’d escaped him at the first chance. And why wouldn’t she? These were her people, the kind that trained her to pull rigging, to steal cargo under the dead of night. The people he was taught to apprehend, to put to justice.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The same people his father was working in conjunction with all this time.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“What am I doing?” Cullen moans to himself, collapsing his head to his hands perched upon his knees. When he bends, his back strikes the bars bringing a sneer of pain to his lips, but he feels as if he deserves it.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Are you well?” his fellow prisoner calls, her tone surprisingly calm given the circumstances.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He could lie, the sarcasm rising like bile. <em>Of course, everything is rainbows in my life. I’m about to be ransomed by pirates to my own estate at the behest of my dead father. Perfectly normal, a regular Tuesday. </em>Cullen moans, sinking deeper into his lap, “No.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“You’re worried,” she surmises, still as calm as the ocean. Gwen is left with a view of the smugglers' comings and goings while all Cullen is afforded is his grimy hands clenching impotently.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“You are of them,” he says, a low growl rising from her. “What will happen?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“To you?” Her anger doesn’t subside, but it is the truth. She is, or was, the same as that peacocking Pavus. “They’ll give it a few days, send a message to your estate, and wait for some payment to be exchanged. Doubtful it’ll break your coffers, they don’t want to get the royal navy involved, but they need to make it look legitimate.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen hears another clank of chains and he can feel the warmth of her body pressing behind his. “Pavus isn’t going to jeopardize his good deal. He’s smart, smarter than most, and knows when to not stab someone in the back. You’ll be back in your study in under a fortnight. Perhaps a bit thinner due to the atrocious pirate cooking, but safe.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Her certainty should soothe him, at least a touch. But he hones in past her comforting words to the ones she didn’t speak. “What of you?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A snort answers him, the clank of chains shaking him to the core. “I’m certain Dorian sent two messengers, one to Honnleath, the other to...my brother. Without a man to claim me, I’m as good as flotsam on the open seas.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen’s heart clenches at the dejection in her voice, how quickly she accepts this fate. “Your brother, is he...would he...?” He is no fool, he knows of men who are quick with their hand and belt, who care nothing for lashing their pain on others. And even if she is a criminal, she doesn’t deserve that fate.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Hm? No. He would never strike a woman. No, Zev is...I wouldn’t say he believes in the life, but he’s never wanted to abandon it either. It’s all he knows. He was so young when I left, but I barely had the means to keep myself alive. I...” Her aching tongue stills, Gwen’s back pressing harder to his and the rustle of her skirts breaking over the crash of the waves below. “I’m certain he wants me back.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Is that what you want?” Cullen whispers, confounded at his concern for her. She’s made it rather obvious that she is a survivor who doesn’t need his pity or help. But he cannot shake the feeling in his heart.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“When has what I wanted ever mattered? When has any woman’s wants ever mattered?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Glass shatters behind him, Cullen trying to whip his head over to see. “What was that?” he calls, anger rising at the pirates tying him away from their activities. At least they removed the gag. Who know how many filthy diseases he’d catch from that.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Our ‘guard’ has passed out from drink. And is snoring louder than a sawmill,” Gwen reports and he feels her back leave his. Is she freer than he is to move around in her rusted cage?</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen wants to remain angry with her, to lash his tongue at her for his predicament, but he cannot escape the truth. This is his fault, his doing. His father’s cause that he saw through to the end, and the only one to be truly punished is her.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Ha,” Gwen chuckles suddenly through the moping of the broken Captain. “It just occurred to me that I probably worked for your family prior to my Governess duties. If Pavus was working for him, it’s certain my father did as well.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gritting his teeth, Cullen tries to flop onto his side. The ropes tied to his wrists and around the iron ring in the rock allow him to lean only on the right, his wounded knee bouncing on the ground. The pain feels right. “I have to set this right, I cannot believe all this time my family. My father, the man who instilled in me discipline and authority was...was... When I am out of here, I am rescinding every contract made with these criminals.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Truly?” Whatever Gwen is up to, perhaps chewing on the moldy bread foisted upon them, pauses. He didn’t realize the odd sounds until there were none. “Smugglers will not look kindly upon their source of income drying up so quickly.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I do not fear them.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She snickers at that as if she either finds his bravado comical or expected his reaction. More silence falls before Gwen says, “It will drain your coffers, threaten the estate's incomes.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I have lived on far less in my life.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“What of Branson?” her voice plainly asks, causing him to sit up at the mention of his nephew.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen swallows, fear rising that the smugglers might threaten the boy, but no. They need him. Before he can ask, Gwen continues, “You’d be taking coin from him as well, interest, leaving him a more rotten legacy than what he began life with. Are you strong enough to make such a choice?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Legacy. The last thing Cullen ever wanted was a legacy. He found the word filthy as he ran to the embrace of the Navy, often wishing he could fade to the same nameless state as the lower decks. But Branson? He’s just a child. He hasn’t known anything else, it would be cruel to...</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“If you wish me to forgive my father for working with pirates, you’ll not accomplish your task,” Cullen growls. “He had a choice. He could have done anything else that did not involve ensnaring himself with murderers and thieves.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Really? From what I’ve seen of the world, when anyone has enough money that their grandchildren will live comfortably, they got it by breaking someone else’s back.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I do not understand you,” he sneers even as her words ring a hollow truth through him. “Do you wish me to remain working for these men? The ones you ran from? The ones you...” You will be returned to?</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“No,” Gwen announces, and he hears the door of her cage swing open.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen scrabbles to his knees, his eyes turning to find her standing outside his cage with half her hair fallen to her shoulder. She holds one of her hairpins in her fingers, her lips pursed in thought. “But I want you to know the challenges you will face should you choose to do what’s right. So you are not tempted to slide back into what always was.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She freed herself without needing him. Without needing anything from him. <em>Run. Escape before they catch you. Find a boat and sail away before you are forced back into what you worked so hard to flee. Please.</em></span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">He swallows, expecting her to turn and leave him to his own problems. Gwen falls to her knees, her eye beaming into the old lock as she works two of her pins inside.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>Don’t stay. They could take you, find you. They’ll hear. The drunkard will awaken and the pirate won’t be as generous as before. Save yourself. Please.</em>
  </span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>Don’t leave me.</em>
  </span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The click of the lock causes him to look up into her eyes, Gwen shuffling inside. Those nimble fingers that tied down a loose sail, that taught Branson maths, that caught Cullen’s hand should he start to fall undo the knots around his wrists. He watches it all while his heart pounds a flush to his cheeks. She shouldn’t be wasting her time with him, she said he is safe but not her.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She needs to run.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“There,” Gwen announces, watching the rope tumble to the ground. “Better?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll only feel better when I’m free of this place,” he admits, taking her hand. It’s harder than before but just as warm.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I can get you out, doubtful most of Pavus’ crew is still awake. But we have to stay quiet and hopefully steal a boat.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen nods, staring down at their clasped hands as if he cannot believe she’s still holding him. He’s still holding her. “Then what?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Those emerald eyes burn in his, Gwen’s lips he’d stolen kisses from in the garden trembling. He doesn’t know what he wants to hear, but it isn’t her—with eyes downcast—begging, “Please, give me a headstart before you turn me in to the authorities.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I...”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">His words are cut off by the sound of footsteps clomping towards them. “We have to move,” Gwen calls, tugging Cullen around the outcropping of rock. Whatever he wanted to say to her, however he wished to assure her in that moment is lost. All they leave behind is two open doors and a pile of rope for the pirates to find.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Rising Waters</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">She is no fool and, sadly, neither is Pavus. Any other smuggler and she could have offered to parlay for the Duke’s release, but Dorian has to smell the change in the air and the anger in Cullen’s eyes. Waiting for his Grace’s blood to cool for a week or two made sense, but should Cullen refuse to bend his ideals...</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen shakes off the thought, her back pressing to the rocky incline they’ve been following. There are obvious sounds of dice being shot across the way and bottles clinking, but hopefully no one rests near the boats. All they need do is sneak down, cut the line, and silently row to sea.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Then what?</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Oh, his Lordship would most certainly land on his feet, no doubt the idea of rallying the navy to smoke these smugglers out rising in his mind. Once again she waits upon the precipice not knowing if it is simply easier to jump and end the pain quickly.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“What lies ahead?” he whispers near her ear. They crouch near a tumble of bushes, their view obscured.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Why do you think I’d know that?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“You’re a...were a...” He stammers around how he’ll forever see her and Gwen snarls.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I have never been to this bolthole, but at a guess, if we run quickly we’ll find a boat before they even notice we’re gone.” Gwen flexes her legs in the crouch, prepared to do just that.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She turns her head to spy his Grace trying to peer through the leaves. “What of a weapon? A musket or sword?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“There isn’t time.” She shakes her head negative, hoping to keep him on track. They will be sending someone to check on the prisoners before nightfall. It’s now or never. Gwen eases a foot out of the bush, doesn’t hear a cry of surprise, and leaps forward. Before abandoning the foliage blind, she grabs Cullen’s hand. He falls in behind her, both of them leaping towards the makeshift docks.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">They’re little more than crates submerged in the water, but they’ll do. Gwen eyes up the two rowboats bobbing on the waves, the first their better option. To its little hitching post she turns, when Cullen slithers out of her hold and pauses.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“What are you doing?” Gwen spits in a whisper.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“A sword is left lying right there.” He points to an old rapier, rusting and salt-encrusted, upon a table.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Damnit, there isn’t time...” she begins, but the naval man ignores her, his long strides quickly skirting across the docks that anyone from above can see.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen reaches for the hilt, when a man with cock in hand turns from pissing into the ocean. His eyes widen at the prisoners trying to make a daring escape and his hand goes straight for his cutlass.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Damn it!</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The Naval Officer responds in kind, Cullen snatching up the rusty sword and catching the swing of the pirate cutlass. Rather on the nose, all things considered. Clanging metal breaks out across the din of drunken ballywho, the duke taunting the man as he leads him in guarded swordplay. The cutlass is the stronger of the two, able to parry away any attack, leaving them both in a battle that could take minutes.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Minutes they do not have.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen sneers, glancing at the boat she could be untying, when she whips her head up at the freight hanging off of pullies above their heads. Rushing forward as the two men snarl at each other and question their parentage, she loops an end of rope and ties the other to one of the hanging boxes.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen and their smuggler friend dance back and forth, Gwen twirling the rope. She’s heard tales of people in the Americas looping ropes over cattle’s horns and bringing them to heel. As she grew up trying to catch the hitch at the front of a boat in darkest night, that idea seemed rather easy.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Slicing his hand forward, his stride too long, Cullen stumbles. The smuggler grins, sun glinting off the three golden teeth and raises both hands high with his sword ready to cleave into the Duke. Perfect.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen lashes the rope out, the loop making its way around the man’s arms. His attack halts as confusion creeps across his face. She wastes no time in yanking the rope back, cinching her knot tight. As his wrists bind together, the cutlass tumbles to the boards. Gwen snatches it up, watching the pirate try to undo his bindings.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">With a smirk, she spins in place and lobs the scimitar at the hanging box. The rope snaps, two hundred plus pounds of freight crashing to the ground. His eyes widen, the pirate shouting, “Oh shit,” just as he’s yanked by his wrists through the air.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A painful snap announces the separation of the man’s shoulders, but he is now toothless. The duke rises from his slip, a huff in his voice. “Why did you do that? I nearly had him.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I’d prefer to not spill any blood if I can,” Gwen says. To her surprise, he’s taken aback. Those amber eyes that burned with justice fade and he limply nods his head, though the stolen sword remains in his hand.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">With that finished, she moves to unknot the boat’s hitch, Cullen already unearthing the oar to shove it further from the beach.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“What in the blazes was that...? Fasta vass!”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Damn it! Gwen whips her head up at Dorian and his crew all crowding around above them, the captain pointing towards the escaped captives about to steal one of their boats.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A glint of light bounces from his buttons against the barrel of the gun sliding from its holster. Gwen yanks on Cullen’s neck, pulling him from the boat as a bullet slices through the air. His lordship stares where the ball struck through the boards, water burbling in the hole.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I thought you said he wouldn’t hurt me,” he snarls, but cools his head quickly. It is he who snatches up her hand, his body yanking hers around the docks. They leap upon the submerged crates, shots ringing out in the water from above.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“He’s apparently changed his mind. Men have that prerogative,” Gwen says as both of them slip into a side cave to God only knows where.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">From behind she can hear Dorian shouting, “What do I pay you all for? You’re not pretty enough to stand around. Stop them!”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Both stumble against the dark rocks, water dribbling across her bare feet and soaking into her dress’ hem. Gwen shakes it off even as her body struggles against the uneven ground. To her surprise, his Grace has a better grasp of it, his right hand trailing the walls--the sword scraping the low ceiling--the left holding hers. She wishes she could pretend it’s because he doesn’t want to lose her, but it is far more logical that he has plans to send her to the stocks.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Come on,” Cullen calls, tugging so hard she cries out. And he pauses. He waits. His hand slips to her waist, his body tugging hers higher over the boulders. “They’ll be right behind us if we don’t hurry.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“How do you even know this cave opens up elsewhere?” Gwen asks, but she gets her feet back under her and continues to trail after the man moving as if hell is on his heels.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Stands to reason the smugglers would have two or three exits from their hideout should the worst come to pass.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“That’s...” She snickers, surprised at how true that is. </span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Gwen’s nose smacks into the duke’s back, hard. His body remains immobile as he scrapes his sword over two walls. “What is it?” she asks, rubbing at her smushed nose.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Two paths, two openings. Which do we take?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Go right,” she says without pause and his Grace follows her orders. They dash deeper into the shrinking cave, the walls pressing closer, before he asks. “Is this another smuggler trick or...?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“The right path is probably closer to the sea, and we’re more likely to escape that way,” she says with a shrug, “It stands to reason.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A hard laugh snorts from him at her parroting his logic back, Cullen crouching down to slip under low boulders. Gwen does the same, the cold water seeping up her calves. So they’ll either arrive near the sea, or tunnel into a submerged cave and drown. Airtight logic.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She wades through the water rising to her waist, her hands passing over the pool as the sound of footsteps clattering behind begins to lessen. Did they all take the left path? Probably because they know this leads to death.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Teeth chattering from the cold seeping around them, Gwen feels a hand envelop hers. Cullen plucks her from the frosty water up onto a rocky incline. Sunlight peeks through the poorly stacked stones, letting her stare into his wary eyes barely a breath from hers.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">His bottom lip hangs slack, the scar pursing downward as he no doubt weighs the long, lone walk ahead. She put that on him, even if she didn’t wish to. Gwen knew when this all began that it wouldn’t work, and now...?</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“When we get out of here,” Cullen begins, his hand cupping hers, his eyes unreadable.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">But she races to interrupt him, “You need not hold yourself to promises you made to me before. I will not.” Her heart aches as she lays out the unspoken before them. It was a lovely dream to think of the man she cared for, that she loved, being hers for eternity. But it was foolish the moment she said it.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Gwen...?” He sounds stricken at her pragmatism.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A brave and untruthful smile crosses her lips as she says, “It’s all right. I’ve never believed in happily ever afters.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">His eyes crumble, his sight drifting to their hands clasped together--probably for the last. She wishes she could change her past for him but that is impossible. He always was better off finding a woman in his circle, regardless. Still, his thumbs caress over the back of her hands, Cullen’s quivering bottom lip parting as if he’s about to speak.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The winds shift, the hairs on the back of her neck rising. She turns just as the flint on a gun sparks in the dark. Gwen’s body moves her eyes calculating the trajectory of the bullet aiming for his heart.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Pain slices across her neck, her hand slapping to the wound as she snarls from the wound and falls to a knee. “Gwen,” Cullen cries, his eyes darting to the lone smuggler who snuck in after them. His hand raises back, the stolen sword lobbing through the air to strike deep into the chest of the man who shot her.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Nnno,” she whispers, turning away from yet another death she has to sit witness to.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">It’s Cullen who scoops an arm around her, his lips pressing to her cheek in the tight space. “Are you okay?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“It’s a flesh wound, nothing more. Come...we...” Gwen tries to rise to her feet, but they’re falling numb from the cold. Only the hot blood seeping from the bullet in her neck keeps her warm. She attempts it again when her body begins to pitch backward into the grimy seawater behind.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Warm arms catch her, nestle her safely to his chest. “Hold on,” Cullen orders, his eyes darting to her even as he begins to run in the near-pitch dark cave for freedom. “Please, stay with me. Don’t leave. Don’t...Gwen?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She tries to respond, but her tongue’s unreachable, her brain cotton. All around her the darkness presses ever inward, dragging her to the dark abyss from which she can never leave.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A final sound echoes in her dampening ears, a voice in near hysterics as it cries out, “Gwen?”</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Agony</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Gwen!</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Agony sloshes through his marrow, his arms straining with the pain of her still body slumped in his grip. In every sea battle, every cross with pirates and the enemy, Cullen’s anger ran cold as a blizzard. But now? With her face paling, her blood spilling down his palm as he tried to quench the wound she took for him? Lava boils in his veins, the hot anger demanding he turn around to destroy the ones who did this.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">But then what? Cullen continues to scrabble away from the dead bastard he left behind. The ringing from the gunshot pounds into his ears, wiping away all sound. His only hint that Gwen remains with him is a flinch in her face when he presses to tight to the wound.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sorry,” Cullen whispers, struggling to climb through the cave. What if he is wrong? What if this leads nowhere? Should he turn back? Parley with the pirates in the hopes that they’d at least help her? Save her?</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">What could he do trapped at the back of a cave?</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A sound rattles from behind, tinny and far in the distance, but the longer he listens the more he can make out. Voices! And boots tracing the sound of the shot. Forgetting the pain in his worthless knee, or the unbearable moans from the woman in his arms, Cullen picks up the pace. Rocks jut from both sides, curling and twisting to him. In the dark, he takes hits to his jutted-out elbows, his feet, his sides. He ignored it all. All that matters is getting out of there. Getting free.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>Why didn’t I listen? Why did I have to leap straight into action? You wouldn’t be hurt, you wouldn’t be dy--</em>
  </span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Light cuts through the rocks ahead, Cullen’s tear-stained eyes focusing. As he turns a tight corner, he spots more of the promise of freedom opening wider. Green circles outside, the shoreline far different than where they crashed. Did he reach another part of the island?</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">His heart leaps, hope finally reaching him, when a shadow steps into the only escape. Then two more, clearly armed with pistols waving.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">No. No, no, no...</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">They circled around. They found him. They would--</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Throw down your arms, and you will not be harmed!” a commanding voice echoes from the lip of the cave. It twinges through Cullen’s swollen ears, striking a chord deep in his memory.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Delrin?” he mumbles, shaking his head at the impossibility. “Lieutenant Barris?” he calls louder, rising to his unsteady feet.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A lantern swings in, illuminating the angelic face of one Lt. Barris. Those green eyes widen in shock, the man gasping, “Captain Rutherford.” Quickly they dart down the man whose grip is waning on the dying woman. “His Grace requires assistance, quickly.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Two more Navy men rush forward, their hands gripping to Cullen’s elbows as they help him to rise. With trembling steps, he walks out into the light of day. Waves pound against a shoreline in the distance, his eyes darting straight to a frigate anchored in the water.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Sir?” Barris asks, “What are you doing here?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“It is a long tale, Lieutenant.” He shakes his head, trying to find clarity in this turn of events. “Please, take her.” Delrin raises his arms to take Gwen’s stilling body, but Cullen freezes. His eyes drift down her face, the lips he’d hoped to kiss in a matrimonial bond wasting to a haunting white.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Sir?” Barris prompts again, the young officer aware of the old man stumbling in exhaustion.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">With a resignation, his heart screaming that he may never hold her again, Cullen acquiesces. Barris eyes up the blood smeared across Cullen’s palm and the black musket ball in her neck. Cullen can’t imagine the pain she must be under, and a bullet she took for him.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Nodding his head, Cullen orders, “Take her to the ship, treat her.” He shakes his head, trying to rise up to his rickety legs. “Give me your weapon,” he tells one of the ensigns.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Sir, what are you...?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“There are dangerous smugglers inside. I will lead the charge to...”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A rumble echoes from inside the cave, and in a split second, the entire structure falls in on itself. The ensigns grab onto Cullen, yanking him away as Barris turns from the destruction. Dirt erupts in the blast, no doubt set off by the pirates trying to cover their tracks. Well, he wouldn’t hear of...</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">So soft he nearly misses it, Gwen moans from her faint. The military sword tumbles from his hand, Cullen turning to watch her struggle to breathe through the bullet caught in her neck. No, no, please.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Falling to his knees, Cullen’s hands try to wipe away the pain knotting up her cheeks but nothing will work. “Help,” he whispers, praying to God or any in the Divine that will listen.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">It is Barris who says, “We will, Sir. To the boats! Fast, before...”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Before he loses her.</span>
</p><p class="p7"> </p><hr/><p class="p5"> </p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">The doctor finishes winding the last of the bandages around her neck, blood and pus blooming from where the bullet once rested. Cullen tried to grit his teeth and watch, fearful to turn from her for a second, but he blanched at the muscle torn off her body for his life. Gwen rests upon a high cot, her body swaying with the rocking of the ship.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">After tossing the musket ball into a pan, the on-ship doctor wipes his hands upon a bloody towel and turns to leave. Cullen clings to the beam, his fingernails slicing into the wood as he leans with the rock of the ship taking them back to civilization. It shouldn’t be long, a day or two at most. All Gwen needs to do is wake up.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">A warm hand claps to his shoulder and he turns to the Lieutenant. Barris’ eyes brim with sympathy. He’d questioned the old seadog about what he was doing on the island, Cullen lifting every secret off his chest save one. There was no energy left in Cullen’s body for subterfuge, no bile for lying to a courageous man who deserved only praise. Even if...</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Lucky thing we were investigating the same time you were,” Barris announces loudly as if to seal in the explanation for the other officers standing around. As if any would question a Duke who rose to the height of captaining his own ship.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you,” Cullen whispers while abandoning the post. He crumbles to his weary knee before Gwen’s bruised and battered body. The tears won’t stop prickling just on the edge of falling, his heart frozen in his chest. Circling his palm down her arm, he catches her still fingers in his. Those sweet fingers that’d hugged his nephew, that picked the lock on his cage, that held his cheek through the storm, that caught him when he needed her most.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Now they lay still, silent in his trembling grip.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Wake up. Please. Fight.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I should return on deck,” Delrin says as if he needs to explain himself to Cullen. Still, the Duke nods, barely aware of where the ceremony stands now. Before turning, Delrin claps Cullen on the shoulder one last time. “Faith,” is all he can whisper before nodding the two men away from the crumbling man.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen tries to crawl closer on his knees, wishing he could pull her into his lap, will her to heal and rise with a smile on her lips. To assure him that she would live. That she would be safe.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Please,” he whispers again, his lips forming the panicking plea against her feverish forehead. “Please come back. I...” His tears tumble off her forehead like a slow summer rain. “I need to see you again.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Everything</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Pain.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">It ebbs at her toes, wicking against her dangling hands and clawing its way higher over her limbs. But at her neck is where a hot coal radiates clear down her throat and into her lungs. It stings to breathe, but Gwen refuses to stop.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>Is there a reason for her to keep going?</em>
  </span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Sound tries to plunge through her muffled ears, voices speaking through mud, liquid sloshing in wood. None of it makes any sense, and digging her naked toes in deep, she wills her eyes open.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The ceiling tips at a 30-degree angle above her, Gwen flinching as she tries to remember when they were anywhere near so much wood. Pressure abates from her toes, but a pinching remains in her fingers. She cannot understand, her eyes darting to the side...</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Blond curls lay against her shoulder, his muddied cheek resting against her arm as he clings desperately to her hand. His eyes are closed, his breathing steady but shallow. Still, even in the low light of a single lantern, she can see the tracks of salt streaking down his cheeks.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Cull...” Gwen begins before the agony burns against her throat. She winces, shivering away as if she can escape her own skin.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The movement snags him from his dreams, wary amber eyes blinking to take in the woman trying to sit up on her own. As he catches hers darting about the deck, Cullen gasps, “Thank you, God!”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Without a care, he picks up her grimy hand in his and places her knuckles to his lips. No doubt it tastes of rot, death, and mud, but he cannot stop kissing, more praise to the Lord dripping from his mouth.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Wh...” Gwen tries to speak again, the pain striking hard.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The praying man at her feet rises, his head bobbing. Pouring a small red mixture from a bottle into a cup, he curls a hand under Gwen’s back and helps her to sit while giving her the drink. “Here. The doctor said it should help.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Doctor. Her lips purse at the thought even as she drinks the brew. It stings at first, like lemon juice in an open wound, but as she swallows harder the pain fades to a dull throb. No doubt she can speak, but Gwen’s fallen silent in contemplation.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The rocking below her, the shielded lantern, the smell of salted pork and tar. She’s on a ship. And not just any ship either. This is one of the Royal Navy’s; she’s never been more certain of any fact in her life.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Cullen,” Gwen’s raspy voice whispers, her wary eyes darting around the cabin. There are shadows lurking on the edges. Have they come to slap her in chains?</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The man who saved her curls his hand around the back of her head, his eyes so dilated she can only see a circle of gold. Gwen takes a breath and asks, “Did you tell them who I am?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” he says without pause.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She’d hoped for at least a head start, a chance to untangle herself from the smugglers and pirates the Navy were chasing. But he couldn’t even afford her that. Not the law-abiding Duke who’s second cousin to the...</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen says with his head glancing towards the shadows, “Lieutenant Barris and the Captain know you to be my betrothed...”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>What?</em>
  </span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“...and they will gift to you the same courtesy they’d extend to me.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“My Lady,” one of the men says bowing deeply. He wears the uniform of an officer, so probably this Lieutenant, unless a Captain must be around to entertain a Duke at all times.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">And none of that matters! His betrothed? His fiancée? That isn’t...They can’t...</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Cullen.” Gwen wraps a hand around his arm, trying to tug him down to her. “But I’m...”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">His palm curls over her cheek, Cullen descending to his knees so they can meet eye to eye. “You told me you don’t believe in happily ever afters,” he says, his voice quivering as he brushes the hair fallen against my face, “but I want you to. I want to give it to you. To take you home as my wife.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Her heart leaps to her throat, Gwen clenching her fingers in shock. She’s dead. It’s the only logical conclusion. She succumbed to that bullet in the cave, bled out on the rocks, and is in whatever passes for a smuggler’s heaven. There’s no other answer because...</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Tears burn in her eyes, Gwen clasping a hand to her mouth in shock.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The Duke, the man of the Navy, and lord of Honnleath, picks up her slack hand in his. “Lady Trevelyan, I know I asked once before but knowing now the truth of us both, knowing that you are the kind of person who selflessly risks her life for one she cares for,” he glances towards the wound she can feel pulsing below a bandage, “please, please let me be your husband.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” Gwen cries, “yes, gladly. Happily. Yes.” Her arms curl around his neck, pulling him to her in a crushing embrace.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I thought I lost you,” Cullen whimpers against her cheek, the steady beat of his heart surging through her empty body. She thought herself hollow, nothing more than a tool for those who owned her and now?</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Now she is free.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t let go,” Gwen says, clinging heart and soul to the man to be her husband.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I never will,” he swears.</span>
</p><p class="p7"> </p><hr/><p class="p7">
  
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Two days pass upon the ship, Gwen finding the pain to fade more and more until she can speak nearly freely. There is a disquieting bruise and a gash upon her throat she fears will never vanish. But the displeasure of a future of disfigurement is little concern compared to the promise of what awaits her when they return to Honnleath.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">The pair stand on deck, staring across the shores of their lands slipping past, hand in hand. Suddenly, Lieutenant Barris strides close, points to a small steeple nearly perched upon the cliffs, and says, “I do believe that is a church. Would his Grace feel a sudden urge to visit?”</span>
</p><p class="p7"> </p><hr/><p class="p6"> </p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“Vicar!” Cullen calls, his hand wrapped around Gwen’s waist. His heart sings as the old man in simple robes turns from his garden. “We require a wedding, on the double.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">In almost no time, courtesy of Cullen flashing his title around, the two of them stand before the Vicar. Barris sits upon the second closest pew, his smile as bright as the sun for the two about to be bonded for eternity waiting hand in hand. Gwen draws a hand to her breast, her lips pursing as she stares down at the simple dress clinging to her.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I wish I had better to wear,” she sighs as if she could look more lovely to him in silks and ribbons than the green dress he watched flit into his life. The same dress she wore when taking a bullet for him, her feet as naked as when she climbed up a mast to save them all.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“You are the most beautiful woman in the world,” Cullen speaks the truth. A blush rises upon her cheeks, Gwen curling a finger through her fallen hair, but he means it.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">She draws against the yellowing bandage upon her neck and frowns. “This however...”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I did have an idea,” Cullen muses. It took a bit of convincing after he spotted one of the merchant women with it, but his charms hadn’t fully evaporated. Reaching into his pocket, he reveals an emerald ribbon. While Gwen takes in the color only second to her eyes, Cullen gently ties it to her neck, disguising the bandage.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Before he finishes the knot, her bright eyes dart up to him, Gwen smiling. “A bright green ribbon to hide away my ugly scar.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Your scars will always be perfect to me,” he admits, knowing that whenever he unties her ribbon he can be reminded how much she sacrificed for him. Cullen scoops a hand around her jaw, pulling her lips closer to his.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Ahem,” the dusty Vicar coughs, shaking both from their near kiss. “If I may begin...?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I, Cullen Rutherford, Duke of Honnleath, do solemnly swear to love, honor, and devote myself to this woman every day that I live. Regardless of sickness, of destitution, of anger and loss, I know she is my port and I, her rock. If I could will it so, I would make every day for you one of happiness and sunshine. I love you.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Her eyes shine in his, tears fracturing in them like cut diamonds as they hold the hands of each other upon the precipice of matrimony.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Well,” the Vicar coughs, “went a bit off track there, but jolly good. And you miss?”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“I, Gwen Trevelyan, do solemnly swear to be with you. To be there for you. To hold you when the thunder prowls, to carry you when the weight grows too heavy, to shield you when the worst comes to pass.” Her beautiful smile strains and she draws a finger to her green ribbon. Cullen wraps her hand safely in his, pulling both to his lips.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">At that Gwen smiles wide, the tears of joy tumbling from her eyes. “I adore you, I love you, and I want nothing more than to be with you for life.”</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">Cullen can take no more. Caring nothing for the Vicar, the ceremony, or the house of God, he scoops Gwen up in his arms and finds succor on her lips. As the heat of his kiss wafts over her, he too promises to protect her and adore her with everything inside of him.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">“Ah, with that I pronounce you man and wife,” the Vicar throws out, shrugging a shoulder. Clapping and a hoot breaks from their lone witness, but Cullen doesn’t care as he dips Gwen for another kiss.</span>
</p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">For the first time in his life, he has everything he could ever want in his arms.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. The End</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p class="p10">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>To Whomsoever Seeks His Grace, let it be known that Master Cullen Rutherford Duke of Honnleath and his bride Lady Guenevier Trevelyan are enjoying an extended honeymoon upon the Mediterranean waters. They shall be unreachable for two fortnights. May God take mercy on any daring enough to interrupt them.</em>
  </span>
</p><p class="p11"> </p><p class="p10">
  <span class="s1">The sloop bounces against the waves, spicy winds from the south billowing open the sails. Cullen clutches the rudder, his nearly bare legs curled under him as he tries to call commands to the woman working the sails. Tries because by the time the words drop from his mind to his tongue she’s already at the rope.</span>
</p><p class="p13">
  <span class="s1">Gwen’s in little more than her chemise, with naught but gulls and the puffy clouds to spy them as they traverse the blue seas in their small ship. For the past two weeks, they’d traveled the shorelines, stopping into tiny villages for meals, sneaking into small shops, and always returning to their boat to sleep under the stars.</span>
</p><p class="p13">
  <span class="s1">Cullen’s heart has never soared so brightly as it does watching Gwen tug the rope through the islet and knot it off. She grips to the gunwale, her eyes closed as the serene waves of the warm sea air wash over her. A thought strikes Cullen and he yanks the rudder hard to the left. The boat twists to the right, causing Gwen to stumble backwards...</span>
</p><p class="p13">
  <span class="s1">Into his arms.</span>
</p><p class="p13">
  <span class="s1">As he catches her safe in his embrace, those brilliant emeralds sparkle in his eyes. Gwen’s perfect bottom rests in his lap, his hand smoothing down her back while the other curls around her waist. “You did that on purpose,” she guesses quickly.</span>
</p><p class="p13">
  <span class="s1">Guilt tries to claw over Cullen’s face but he regrets nothing while holding her so close to his body. Her carefree breathing lifts those breasts he could suffocate in every night closer to view. Cullen’s palm brushes over the top, his fingers flitting with the lacy neckline as she nibbles on her lip.</span>
</p><p class="p13">
  <span class="s1">“I was getting jealous,” he whispers to her, his other hand smoothing down to curl over her bottom. Her naked legs entwine with his; the polished wood of the boat, the sting of salty air, and her skin wrapped over his are the perfect combination.</span>
</p><p class="p13">
  <span class="s1">“Jealous of the ship?” Gwen guesses. She draws her finger near the green ribbon around her throat as if she’s about to tug it apart before they draw against his chest. Slowly, they wind lower, nesting in the mess of chest hair Cullen the sailor has revealed to the sky.</span>
</p><p class="p13">
  <span class="s1">“Or,” she breathes, pulling his forehead to hers. I drink her words, her lips twisted in a smile, “jealous of my skills.”</span>
</p><p class="p13">
  <span class="s1">“There is nothing more enticing to me than watching you work the sails,” Cullen admits, still surprised to find it true. He’d embraced the Navy ideal that women didn’t belong on ships, but Gwen flowed about the deck as if she was born upon one. As if he was the interloper and she a nymph of the waters.</span>
</p><p class="p13">
  <span class="s1">Her smile deepens, but her eyebrows rise. “So it is my skill you wish you had. I suppose in time, I could teach you...”</span>
</p><p class="p13">
  <span class="s1">Cullen pulls her flush to his lips, silencing her teasing with a kiss. He meant it to be a light affection, but as her fingers wind through his hair, her lips parting to tempt him with her tongue he dives in. To think, he nearly lost her. Not only by the pirate’s gun but his own stupidity. Never again.</span>
</p><p class="p13">
  <span class="s1">His wife, his Duchess, his love, breaks the kiss. Her thumb brushes against his salt and sand beard while he stares at her reddening lips. Those perfect emeralds dart to his eyes and a promise to God washes over him.</span>
</p><p class="p13">
  <span class="s1">He will protect her. He will guard her from any who dare come to threaten her. He will love her with every breath in his body. And he will give her everything she ever needs.</span>
</p><p class="p13">
  <span class="s1">“I love you,” Gwen says first, once again beating him before the words can reach his tongue.</span>
</p><p class="p13">
  <span class="s1">Cullen butts his nose to her throat opposite the bullet she took for him. Breathing in her jasmine skin, he answers, “I will always love you.”</span>
</p><p class="p13">
  <span class="s1">He means it in his heart, in his soul, and as her eyes search his he prays she knows that it is unbreakable.</span>
</p><p class="p13">
  <span class="s1">“You know,” her head swivels around the open horizon. Sunlight glints off the waves, turning them clear as diamonds atop the sapphire waters. Her fingers work down his stomach to cup against his inner thigh. “We seem to be alone.”</span>
</p><p class="p13">
  <span class="s1">Cullen surges forward, lips aching for hers, hands pleading to undress her. She laughs at the ferocity, giving herself without pause to his hunger. Making love to his sailor wife on the deck of a ship bobbing on the waves. Is there anything better in this world or the next?</span>
</p><p class="p13"> </p><hr/><p class="p10"> </p><p class="p10">
  <span class="s1">Deep in the dregs of Antiva, a man scrabbles over the drunkards passed out upon floors sticky with stains best not spoken of. He approaches with only slight fear for his personhood a man with a hat sporting a feather of a phoenix. “Excuse me,” the man asks, placing a careful hand to the blonde man’s shoulder.</span>
</p><p class="p13">
  <span class="s1">The blonde man turns. His skin darkened to that of an oak tree from months on the boards glistens from the sweat of the humid Anitvan night. Breath and courage stick in the man’s throat as he notices the tattoos and a sign of who he’s talking to.</span>
</p><p class="p13">
  <span class="s1">“Come man, I’ll not bite you for speaking,” the blonde says before pausing and adding, “Unless that is what you wish of me.”</span>
</p><p class="p13">
  <span class="s1">“Are you Zevran? The dread pirate Zevran, Scavenger of Antivan Waters, Captain of the Crow?”</span>
</p><p class="p13">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t much approve of the pirate nom de plume, but you have the right of it,” he turns from his bottle of brandy to eye up the man brave enough to seek him out. Those deep brown eyes tell of tales that’d turn a grown man’s hair white. “What is it?”</span>
</p><p class="p13">
  <span class="s1">“Here,” the man thrusts over a scrap of paper. “I was asked to deliver this to you by my Captain.”</span>
</p><p class="p13">
  <span class="s1">“Hm, Captain to Captain. I haven’t had a chance to enjoy one of those têt a têts in...”</span>
</p><p class="p13">
  <span class="s1">His musings fade as he unrolls the scroll to read the message the man had been carrying for over a month from Captain Pavus.</span>
</p><p class="p13">
  <span class="s1">“Zevran, I’ve found your sister and you will never believe who she’s bound herself to.”</span>
</p><p class="p13">
  <span class="s1">A smile of a shark winds about Zevran’s lips, the torn parchment tumbling to his lap as he gazes about the room. “Well, well. Get up boys,” he tips back his glass, licking off the rim before leaping to his feet. With a glint in his eye, he declares, “We sail for Honnleath.”</span>
</p><p class="p13">
  <span class="s1">THE END</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading along!</p><p>I know I left with some sequel bait, but I'm not sure when I'll have time to get to it. (Writing two series at the same time for my publisher has claimed all my free time). But, I wanted to do just a little bit of pirate Zevran.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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